


Blood and Glass

by cookie_rock



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angry Mages, Background Relationships, Blood Mages, Blood Magic, Canon Compliant, Circle Mages, Dragon Age II Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Grey Warden Joining, Grey Warden Mages, Grey Wardens, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Kirkwall is a Shithole, Mages, Minor Anders/Female Hawke, Suicidal Thoughts, The Calling, Warden Carver Hawke, all the mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-08 13:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 73,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookie_rock/pseuds/cookie_rock
Summary: The life of a Grey Warden is one of terrible sacrifice. Everyone knows that, even if they don't know exactly what it entails. But no matter how violent and dangerous it is, it has to be better than the terror, persecution, and abject misery of Kirkwall's Circle of Magi. Killing darkspawn sounds preferable to killing herself, so when Scarlet's twin sister, Rose, appears out of nowhere with a couple of Grey Wardens and the Right of Conscription, she doesn't ask questions.When backed into a corner, it's been said, mages have options that other people don't.[Spoilers for Dragon Age II. I attempted canon compliance (except where canon is fuzzy, or canon and I disagree about how difficult and painful magical healing should be), but I'm only human.]





	1. Chapter 1

_9:32 Dragon_

“You won't be able to have children.”

The Warden-Lieutenant, whose name was Hacklebolt, said this without lowering his voice, but he leaned his head closer when he did it, as you might when telling a secret. Scarlet was a little taken aback. The Grey Wardens had been close-lipped and mysterious about what this whole process might entail, save a few mentions of life-long commitment and general gloom and doom. She knew joining the Wardens was forever, no takebacks (unless you were Grand Enchanter Fiona, apparently), and she had the vague idea that it meant camping and fighting and might mean dying. This was the clearest anyone had been.

“Won't as in not allowed, or won't as in can't?” Rose asked.

“The latter, most likely. It's near impossible for Grey Wardens to conceive.”

“That's a relief,” Scarlet said without thinking.

“Oh,” said Rose. The look of determination she'd worn since she had arrived to pick Scarlet up with the Wardens didn't falter, but the corners of her mouth turned down.

“I think that's a thing a body has a right to know,” Hacklebolt said, and something in his voice made the lankier Warden prodding at the sullen fire glance up at him. He didn't say anything, though. It looked like they'd had this conversation before.

“Mages aren't encouraged to breed,” Scarlet volunteered to try to break the tension, “so the Chantry thanks you. Are we ready yet?”

“Hold your horses,” said the Warden at the fire.

“Take some time to yourselves,” Hacklebolt said to them. He got up and moved away, and Scarlet turned to Rose, next to her on a fallen log. She hadn't had a chance to study her in years, but she was familiar—she saw her face every time she looked in a mirror. The sun had put red in Rose's black hair and darkened her skin, while Scarlet had been largely indoors for a decade and looked like someone stuck in perpetual winter. They were both curvy, thick through the hips and thighs, like all the women of their family, but Rose was wiry, fiercer, _stronger--_ Scarlet hadn't realized how soft she had grown in the Circle until she was faced with the image of what she could be. Rose's chin was wider, her smile brighter, her hair curlier. She was still prettier than Scarlet, she had scars Scarlet didn't—but her eyes were as grey, the lashes as long, her lips as pink, her cheekbones as high, and they were still the same unimpressive height with the same smattering of freckles across the same smug nose.

“Are you sure about this?” Scarlet asked quietly.

“Sure I'm sure.”

“But are you _sure_ though?”

“I promised I'd get you out of there, didn't I?”

“We were just babies.”

“I keep my word. Anyway, I always wanted to be a Grey Warden.”

“Since when?”

“Since I heard about griffons.”

“They haven't had those in ages.”

“They might again.” Scarlet raised an eyebrow, and Rose shrugged. “You never know.”

“Rose.”

“I'm sure, alright?” she said, grabbing her hand, still the same size even though Rose's were calloused from her bow. “Are _you_ sure?”

“I don't really have any options.”

“Well then.” Rose looked down at their joint hands. “Your fingers tingle.”

“Storm's coming.”

She looked up at the sky, clear and bright. Cool breeze appropriate to the season. No real pressure changes yet. “How can you tell?” Scarlet grinned and tapped her temple with her free hand. “What all did they teach you?” Rose asked with a tilt of her head that was achingly familiar, but then the Warden at the fire stood up.

“Alright. Ready now,” he said, holding a chalice large enough to bathe a small child. Hacklebolt stood too, and so did Scarlet and Rose, still holding hands like nervous children. She wasn't sure whose hand was shaking most.

“Join us, brothers and sisters,” Hacklebolt said, his voice suddenly deeper, harsher. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

“Heartwarming,” Scarlet wanted to say, but the word got stuck in her throat. She reached out for the chalice at the same time Rose did—they glanced at each other and giggled, which didn't break the spell cast by the dark and the fire and the seriousness of what they were about to do. “I'm oldest,” Scarlet said, and Rose rolled her eyes but gestured with her free hand. The chalice was so heavy she had to let go of Rose's hand and hold it with both of hers. It was cool, the silver blackened with age. The liquid within it was viscous like warm maple syrup (or blood, but the more she thought about that the more nauseous she got). It smelled strongly of copper and thyme, with notes of sulfur and rotting flesh to make it all that much most unpleasant. For the first second it hit her tongue, though, it tasted amazing, like drinking bliss. And then it tasted like bile and vomit, all her nerves were on fire and her body was breaking apart, and she gagged, she was choking on nails and acid and blood, she couldn't breathe, she fell to her knees, and then darkness claimed her.

\---

Dreaming was not always pleasant for a young mage, though it improved after the Harrowing (one way or another). Scarlet was no stranger to terror at night. The nightmares after the Joining were worse than anything she'd ever seen in the Fade. She woke up multiple times over the next few days, sometimes to throw up, sometimes just to scream and scream and try to get away from the things trying to pull her back down into the horrors in her head.

She woke for good curled up in a small pile of blankets, in a corner somewhere warm. Her hands were clenched around the corner of a blanket, and when she slowly uncurled them and opened her eyes, she realized her fingers were bloodied and raw.

“Easy,” someone said.

“Son of a bitch,” she tried to say, but what came out was a pitiful groan.

“Water?” A hand slipped behind her head, and with its help she sat up enough to reach the cup (small, reassuringly wooden) that was near her lips. The water inside was warmish, slightly sweet, and tasted better than anything she'd ever had. She wasn't nearly finished when it was taken away. “Easy,” the person said again, and she blinked her fuzzy eyes and looked up at a smallish elf (blonde, dusky, sharp blue eyes, small scar at left eyebrow, _beautiful)_ , who was crouched beside her. “Too much and you'll just throw it all back up. It's alright.” The elf eased her head back down onto the blankets and sat back on her heels. “You made it. Most don't.”

The way she said that—Scarlet sat up so fast her vision clouded and she fell back. “Rose,” she croaked, frantic.

“She made it,” the elf said. “Rest.”

\---

“So what can you do?”

Scarlet was alone with Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt, and it was disconcerting. They'd been running errands in some city in Highever for hours (not the capitol, but geography had never been her strong suit and she was totally lost), and he hadn't said much to her.

The other members of the patrol were off doing errands of their own. Rose hadn't let her out of her sight since they'd left the Circle, but she had gotten used to following orders during her stint in the Denerim guard, and so she'd gone off with the others—the elf, Cyvren Tillahanen, who Scarlet could _not_ stop thinking about, and the other human, a youngish man with red hair named Lyle Murray. In the week since Scarlet and Rose's Joining he'd complained about everything from his boots to the state of the roads, burned dinner every time he was on mess duty, and told Scarlet that it had taken her a lot longer to recover from the Joining than most people, as if she'd been sick for days on purpose. He'd been nothing but sweet to Rose, though, to the point that he even bought her some caramels that morning, so Scarlet was prepared to forgive him his faults. And Cyvren...she was just as dazzling when Scarlet _wasn't_ in the grip of a fever, but seemed to prefer Rose's company despite Scarlet's best efforts at being charming. To be fair, though, her best efforts were a little rusty (not much call for charm in the Gallows the last couple of years). That could change.

The Warden-Lieutenant, on the other hand, was gruff and hard to read, older and taller than her by a good measure, bearded, and broad-shouldered, and when he seemed unimpressed with her he looked so much like a younger, hairier, more weathered version of Knight-Commander Greagoir that she kept having to do a double take. He also seemed to like Rose. Scarlet wasn't sure what he thought of her any more than she was sure what she thought of him.

She started to answer his question, but first she ducked to avoid a woman carrying a giant basket of clean laundry. Unfortunately, while she was ducking she bumped into another woman, who dropped her crate of vegetables with an irritated curse, and Scarlet stammered out an apology as she crouched to try to help her pick them up. The woman glared daggers at her.

“Shouldn't your kind be—oh,” she said, tone changing suddenly as she glanced behind Scarlet. The Warden-Lieutenant had crouched with her and put his hand on her shoulder, either in solidarity or to keep her from running off, and when she saw him the woman actually smiled. “I'm sorry, ducky, I thought—I didn't realize you were a Grey Warden.”

“Um,” Scarlet said, not sure how to respond to that, and handed the woman a badly bruised zucchini. The woman accepted it, stood up and addressed the Warden-Lieutenant, who also stood. Scarlet did too, hanging back sort of awkwardly, not sure what to do with herself.

“My husband fought with the army at Ostagar, and he spoke so highly of your courage, even when all those people were—saying otherwise. My great-uncle was a Grey Warden. It's good you're here.” She reached out for his hand. “ _The Maker smiles sadly on his Grey Wardens,_ ” she quoted, and he took her hand, gave a half-nod, half-bow over it. It was a strange and oddly intimate little ritual, and Scarlet didn't know what to make of it.

“Try not to knock over everyone in town,” Hacklebolt said to her once the woman was gone.

“I'm not used to this many people in one place,” she said. He glanced around at the crowd, looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“This isn't even the biggest city in Highever. No more than a few thousand people here.”

She didn't really know how to respond to that either—how to explain that a thousand people was an impossible number, that you'd never have that many people in one Circle at a time? Instead she shrugged and wiped her hands on her robes. “When do I get a uniform?”

“They'll get you both kitted out at Vigil's Keep.”

“Then what?”

“Then you go where you're told.”

“Oh good, something new and different,” she said. He gave her a look she couldn't read, then jerked his head in the direction they'd been going.

“Come on, we're almost done.”

She trailed along next to him and a little behind. At least she didn't have to scramble to keep up. Their pace marching through the countryside struck her as both sadistically and unnecessarily fast, but he'd slowed when it was just the two of them in town.

“So again,” he said, “what can you do?”

“What do you mean?'

“Your skills. Red said you had plenty, but couldn't be specific.”

“Red?”

“Your sister. I can't tell you apart.” Scarlet snorted—she and Rose had never been identical—and he smiled all of a sudden. “Never had a mage in my patrol, just wondering how best to use you.”

Well, alright. “Um,” she said, trying to think what would be most useful out here. “I specialized in storm magic and weather augury, my barriers are pretty top notch, I'm fluent in Orlesian and Antivan, and I can read a little Tevine. Basic first aid, but I'm no healer.”

“Ever been in combat?”

“No.”

“Combat training?”

“Some. I can hit a moving target, anyway.”

“Ever seen darkspawn before the other day?”

She swallowed at the memory, shook her head.

“What's the range on that thing?” He gestured at her staff.

“Sixty yards, give or take. Big stuff I have to be closer. It deals storm damage, but I can do all the basics and a little spirit as well. Not sure how useful that is.” The hem of her robe got caught on a loose nail as they passed a fruit stall. Without thinking she jerked it free; it ripped halfway up her leg. “Maker's tits.” She surveyed the damage, decided a patching charm wasn't going to cut it. “Can we get some needle and thread while we're here?”

“You sew?”

“When I need to. Oh, and I can freshen clothes without water. That doesn't mean you get to put me on laundry duty,” she added, turning to glare at him. “I'm not your maid.”

“'Course not. We divvy up evenly, but everyone handles their own gear. Mending's just one less thing we have to teach you,” he said, and she relaxed a little. “Although now you've told me, you're not getting out of the clean clothes thing while we're on the road. Might as well get used to it. You can swap it for latrines,” he added before she could complain. She considered how her hands had felt the first time she'd had to dig a hole with a shovel and nodded.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

Hacklebolt stopped walking, turned and looked her in the eye, a long stare that seemed to take her measure. She stared right back at him, resisting the urge to cross her arms. He had mild brown eyes, and the wrinkles around the corners were deeper than his age would imply, as if despite all appearances he really liked to smile. “You'll do alright, Red,” he said after a minute, reached into the crate of supplies he was carrying and handed her a shiny green apple. “Hungry?”

“It's Scarlet,” she said before she tore into it.

He shrugged and turned to keep walking. “I can't tell you apart.”

“How does that--”

“There's the others.”

“How are you feeling?” Rose said that night, as they settled in to the little room they had all to themselves in the tavern (Hacklebolt had offered them each a room of their own, but Scarlet had panicked). They were stuffing themselves with the tavern's dinner—stew, ostensibly beef, not very good but very filling, which was all they really cared about. Scarlet had never been as hungry as she had been in the last week. They'd gone through a whole pot already, plus almost an entire loaf of bread, and the second pot was almost empty. At least there was plenty of dandelion wine. Maybe she could drink herself into not noticing that she was starving.

“Hungry. And exhausted. Mostly hungry though.” She was sitting on a pillow on the floor, leaning back against the bed. She grabbed the last bit of bread, dragged it through the remains of her bowl of stew.

“Me too, so quit hogging the bread,” Rose said, snatching half of it from her with nimble fingers. “I meant how _are_ you?”

Terrified, exhausted, too keyed up to sleep well, and still expecting a platoon of Templars to jump out at any moment with a Tranquility brand at the ready. “I'm great. Honest,” she added when Rose didn't seem convinced, because how do you tell someone that their solution to your problem was almost as terrifying as the problem? “My head was killing me there for a bit, but that's cleared up. Having a bath helped a lot.”

Rose seemed prepared to accept that. She stuffed the bread into her mouth. “Murray said it's the only Joining he's never seen somebody die,” she said around it. “Last one they lost everybody.”

“Maker's tits. No wonder they didn't tell us anything about it. How did--” She meant to ask, now that they had some privacy, how Rose had convinced the Wardens to come for her, but there was a knock at the door. Rose scrambled up to get it (and Scarlet spooned some of the stew out of Rose's bowl into hers), and when she opened the door she revealed Cyvren, bearing another loaf of bread and a couple of smallish jars. Scarlet had to stop her hands flying to her hair.

“Hi ladies,” Cyvren said. “I remember how hungry I was after my Joining, I so I requisitioned you a snack. The innkeep assures me the buckleberry jam is the best in this area, but given the state of the stew I'm not sure that's worth much.”

“Bless you,” Rose said. “Do you want to come share with us?”

“We've got plenty of wine left,” Scarlet said, putting on what she had good reason to believe was a winning smile and gesturing at the floor next to her. “The accommodations aren't really the best, but you can't beat the Marrak twins for charming company.”

Cyvren leaned casually against the door frame, the light from the wall sconce behind her head making her look like a hero on a mosaic, and favored Rose with a smile, then turned a long, slow look on Scarlet, who had to suppress a little shiver of joy. “Well, I do enjoy charming company.”

She stepped inside and they made space for her on the floor.

Much later that night, when Rose's yawns became too pronounced to hide anymore, Scarlet insisted on walking Cyvren back to her room (Rose caught her eye and crossed her fingers for her as they left). The evening had gone very well indeed, if she was any judge of flirting—and she had no cause to think she wasn't—and so when she said “I don't know when they plan to start paying us, but when they do, could I take you to dinner sometime?” she was not expecting Cyvren to stop smiling suddenly. She avoided Scarlet's eyes and toyed with the key to her room for a second before she seemed to come to a decision.

“Sorry. I don't...I probably should have said—it's nothing personal, but I don't date humans.”

“I don't blame you, most of us are awful,” Scarlet said without thinking, and the elf gave a surprised laugh. Scarlet smiled, pleased to have thought of something to make things less awkward, and shrugged. “Just thought I'd ask.”

“No hard feelings?” she said, and Scarlet nodded. Cyvren seemed relieved. “I can't wait for the rest of the Wardens to get a look at you two.”

“You're back,” Rose said, confused, when Scarlet returned. She groaned and sat down on the floor, too tired and disappointed to walk any further. “What happened?”

“No humans.”

“Her loss,” Rose said, loyal as always, and came over in her pajamas to haul Scarlet to her feet.

“I don't want to get up.”

“Come on, you can't sleep on the floor.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“You're not the boss of me,” Scarlet grumbled, but she allowed herself to be dragged up anyway. She had left with nothing save her staff and the clothes on her back, and Rose's extra pajamas were more than a little snug, but they would do for now.

“You sure you're alright?” Rose asked once they were tucked in.

“I'm sure,” Scarlet said, wrapping her arms around the extra pillow.

They hadn't slept in the same room since they were children, and once the lights were out Scarlet remembered what it was like to listen to her breathing on the other side of the bed. It was comforting, but it was also...unfamiliar. The strange pendant she'd been given for surviving the Joining ritual was unfamiliar, sleeping outside the Circle tower was unfamiliar, the way she sometimes heard things that weren't there was unfamiliar, her whole body was unfamiliar since the Joining.

“I'm scared out of my fucking mind,” she finally whispered into silence deep enough to suggest that Rose had fallen asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_9:33 Dragon_

“It itches.” Scarlet hadn't expected that—her first tattoo, a field of stars covering her right shoulder and half her arm, was done by magic, painlessly, in about three seconds. The elaborate heraldic griffin covering her lower back, clutching a lightning bolt in its talons, its tail curling down her left hip, had been done by hand, in ten hours over two days, and hurt like hell. It itched like the chicken pox and fleas and redbugs all at once. It had been three days. It was driving her  _mad._

“Don't scratch,” Cyv said, her jaw tight—her griffin was on her left arm, and she was clenching her right hand around her mug as she said that. “It'll ruin the ink. Just let it go. Think soothing thoughts--”

“But when does it _stop_?” Rose interrupted. Her griffin was on her left side and was the largest—it wrapped around most of her torso, from her ribs to her hip, it had taken four days, she must have been itching like mad.

“Give it a week.”

“A _week_?” Scarlet said, and Rose groaned. “A week of this? Are you serious? Why didn't you tell me before?”

“Same reason they don't tell you about the Calling, I expect,” Cyv said with a shrug. “You can pat it gently if you want--” Scarlet immediately turned around and slammed her lower back against the wall of the tavern, which did help, a little, but also made the civilians on the other side of the tavern jump and stare at her.

“Told you not to do it, Red,” Hacks offered, and Murray, whose griffin was on his left shoulder and appeared to not be bothering him, laughed.

“You sure you don't want one, Hacks?” Scarlet said, reaching for her beer, intending to drink until she didn't notice the itching.

“Yeah, why don't you get one?” Rose said. “The artist said he could squeeze you in for a small one before we go.”

“It didn't hurt, if that's what you're worried about,” Murray added.

“Really? Way you complained made it seem otherwise.” Hacks said.

“Murray complains when the weather's especially nice,” Cyv said, waving her hand dismissively.

“You do bitch an awful lot for a 'former two time Free Marches middleweight boxing champion',” Rose said to him with the same mocking emphasis on the title she used every time it came up.

Murray held up three fingers and stole her mug with the other hand as he favored her with a grin. “Three time, Rosie-Girl, did you never learn to count?” He took a long swig as she gave an indignant sputter and tried to snatch it back across the table.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Scarlet said, turning the conversation back to Hacks before Rose and Murray got into it again (part of her wished they would just sleep together and get it over with; the rest of her did not want to deal with the inevitable fallout) “it's a bonding experience.”

“If you don't get one you'll ruin morale,” Rose said, successfully getting her mug back on the second swipe and clocking Murray on the side of the head with her other hand.

“And the darkspawn are really scared of it,” Scarlet said. “I heard it through the hivemind.”

“It's true, I heard it too,” Rose said.

“Plus, ladies of taste and refinement such as you seek love tattoos just as much as they love beards,” Cyv said.

“Don't be such a damn curmudgeon,” Murray said, rubbing his head and seeming to regret not trying to avoid Rose's fist, “that's my job.”

Hacks rolled his eyes so hard his head actually fell backwards. “Andraste's knickers, do you lot have nothing else to do? _Fine_. Take me to the damn shop.”

He got it over his heart, confirming Scarlet's growing suspicion that Hacks was a damn sentimental son of a bitch. She held his hand. “I don't need you to hold my hand,” he said, but he sure did squeeze. When he said “Fuck, that stings,” (the first time) she laughed until she almost cried.

\---

“Murray, on your left!”

“About time!” Murray yelled, ducking right as the spell flew past him and froze the hurlock he'd been fighting with solid. He tossed his sword into his off hand and punched the ice statue in the face so hard it shattered into a thousand pieces. “Take that, you fucking darkspawn piece of shit!”

Scarlet's delighted laughter faltered when she heard a thunk and a strangled sound behind her; when she looked back, a genlock was collapsing with an arrow in its eye. “That's twenty points for me,” Rose sang out over the sounds of the battle ending.

“I'm at twenty two,” Scarlet called back, smirking at Rose's yell of indignation. When the darkspawn raiders were all dead, Murray had gone through and chopped all their heads off for good measure, and Cyv and Hacks were sweeping through the area to confirm that was all of them, Rose cornered her, waving a finger in her face.

“Twenty two?”

“Twenty six now.”

“How?” Rose demanded. Scarlet recounted her kills and started lighting pyres (wrinkling her nose at the smell of burning darkspawn, but what else were you going to do with them?) as Rose did the math on her fingers. “Wait, did you assist Murray, or was that kill-stealing?”

“Oh come _on.”_

“Ugh,” Rose said. “Fine, you win.” She wiped her hands on her tunic, dug into her pouch, pulled out the last handful of copper pennies, and passed them to Scarlet, who tucked them into her pocket.

“Pleasure doing business,” Scarlet said, and Rose snorted, glowering into her now empty pouch. “Don't worry, _Rosie-Girl_ , Murray will spot you for dinner.”

Rose blushed furiously, glancing around to make sure no one else had heard that. “Shut up.”

“Look, do you like him or not? 'Cause if not would you please just tell him? And anyway, I thought you were interested in that mage we met--” Rose reached over and pinched her, and Scarlet grinned even as she rubbed her arm, because that meant she was right.

“Shut _up,”_ Rose said firmly.

Later, when they were all cleaned up and gathered in the only tavern the town could support, Scarlet used those pennies to pay for her first beer of the evening, despite the young, pretty tavern keeper's repeated claims that it wasn't necessary. “No, I insist,” Scarlet said, catching her hand. “Just let me pay for one. Please? You're working so hard,” she added softly, brushing her thumb across the impossibly soft skin on the underside of the other woman's wrist. She smiled, shifted her stance just a bit so that her eyes would catch the light from the lantern on the wall next to them, and the tavern keeper looked her over, smiled back, and relented.

Her name was Lydia. She was maybe a few years older than Scarlet, with two sunny blonde braids hanging over her shoulder and a perfect little heart-shaped birthmark on the milky skin of her left collarbone. Scarlet had seen her try with Rose and be gently rebuffed, had seen her look over the rest of them, had seen her make the decision that Scarlet was an acceptable substitute, and like the fact that her birthmark might have been drawn on, Scarlet did not care. Lydia had blue eyes and very red lips, she smelled like fresh bread and whiskey, her breasts strained against her dark green bodice, and Scarlet _did not care_.

“Tell me about how you fight them,” she whispered later, running her fingers through Scarlet's braid to loosen it as Scarlet made short work of her laces, intending to bury her face in this woman's glorious bosom as soon as possible. The others had mentioned this—people attracted less to you and more to the glory they imagined you had achieved, who wanted you to tell them stories about heroic offensives and daring escapes while they fucked you for the story they could tell people later. Grey Chasers, or Chasers of the Grey, or other names, less polite. Some Wardens liked that sort of thing. Some didn't.

“From a distance,” she said, and kissed her again before she could ask any more questions. Her staff was safely tucked away under the bed where they were entwined in each other, and if she concentrated she could prevent any of the accidental electrical discharge from her fingertips that had sent the apprentice blacksmith in the last village running for the Chantry, and by the Maker's pretty floral bonnet, she was _not_ going to bed alone tonight.

She woke up with the sunrise peeking in through the window and gradually became aware of several very pleasant things: the smell of sex and whiskey in the air; golden hair spread out across the pillows, tickling her cheek; a soft, warm arm flung over her torso; legs tangled with hers under the blankets...

Scarlet sat up immediately, filled with panic—getting caught with someone in your bed was a ticket to solitary, how the hell were they going to sneak her out—it was a very long second before she caught herself, remembered who and where she was, and an even longer second before she could stop gasping in terror. She put her face in her hands and took several long, shuddering breaths, and Lydia must have woken up about that time. Scarlet felt fingers walking up her spine; she dropped her hands and turned back to face the sleepy blonde smiling up at her from the pillows. Lydia reached up to stroke her cheek. Her beauty mark had not rubbed off. Apparently it was real. _Amazing._ “What's wrong, my pretty Warden?” she asked, curling a lock of Scarlet's hair around her finger. She hadn't asked for a name and Scarlet hadn't volunteered it, but the memory of the things she could do with those fingers broke through Scarlet's panic in a way that nothing else had.

“Bad dream,” she said, her voice almost steady. Lydia slipped her hand up around the back of her neck and Scarlet swallowed and let herself be drawn down towards the perfect smile on the perfect lips with the perfect smear of last night's lipstick at the corner.

“Bet I can help you forget it.”

(It was freezing cold outside, but kissing her was a little like kissing sunshine.)

Lydia found Scarlet's staff as she was reluctantly getting dressed to go back to work, when she ducked under the bed to look for her shoe before Scarlet could think of a way to stop her. The smile she'd been wearing all morning faded. _Of course,_ Scarlet thought, resisting the urge to pull the covers over her head, _we can't have nice things._ “You should have told me,” she said.

“Why does it matter?” Scarlet wanted to say, but instead she said “Um,” which apparently did not satisfy Lydia at all.

“You're unbelievable--”

“Says the woman who tried to fuck my sister first,” Scarlet snapped. Lydia looked taken aback. She started to speak, then just blushed (so beautifully), clutched the edges of her bodice together in her hand, gathered up the rest of her things, and swept out, and Scarlet pulled the covers over her head.

“Our hostess looks pissed,” Cyv said when Scarlet finally went downstairs for a late breakfast. She, Rose, and Murray were the only ones there, save Lydia (who did, indeed, look pissed, and in fact left the room without so much as a backwards glance when Scarlet appeared—whatever Scarlet may or may not have been preparing to say, it was too late now), a sleepy stable boy waiting for customers, and the pretty brunette in Murray's lap at the bar. The locals had been thrilled to be rid of their darkspawn problem, and put up quite the show of hospitality in addition to rivers of beer. Hacks had left after supper with the town headwoman and was nowhere to be found. Murray's pretty brunette seemed to be a different pretty brunette than the one he'd had in his lap the night before (he was singing _A Kiss in the Morning Early_ to her and she was eating it up; last night it had been _Black is the Color_ , which he'd changed to “brown.” Scarlet wasn't ever going to love him, but she couldn't blame anyone who hopped into his lap. The man could sing as well as he could shatter frozen darkspawn with his fists). Rose had been inundated with suitors all night, but had drunk enough to kill a small pony and passed out instead of taking anyone up on their offer. She had her head down on the table, and might have been asleep. Cyv had also been popular—most of these people had probably never met an elf, the Dalish didn't come near this area often—but she seemed a lot more clearheaded than Scarlet felt, perhaps because she'd been keeping her eye on Rose most of the night.

“We had some fundamental differences of opinion,” Scarlet said. Cyv raised an eyebrow and Scarlet jerked her head at the staff she'd strapped to her back—what the hell, everyone would know soon enough, and their patrol was being sent back to Orlais anyway, they wouldn't be back here for a while.

“You didn't tell her?”

“Why should I? It's not contagious.”

“People don't like being misled.” That was hard to argue with, and though Scarlet thought of a few ways she could, she was too tired and hungover to try. “Besides, anyone who doesn't want you for who you are isn't worth your time,” Cyv continued, more gently. Scarlet glanced at her sharply and their eyes met over the table—Cyv's were a little tired, a little sad. They looked at each other in silence for a minute before she offered up a rasher of bacon. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” She stuck several pieces into her mouth to stop the war between her ego and her conscience.

“I'm never drinking that much again,” Rose said, not lifting her head.

“You've said that before,” Cyv reminded her.

“I mean it. Stop me next time.”

“How, sew your lips together?”

“That might help.”

“Bacon will help,” Scarlet said, waving a piece at her. Rose groaned.

“Bacon will _not_ help, get it away from me or I'll vomit on you.”

“Across the table? I kind of want to see that.”

“You two get us kicked out of another tavern before I finish my breakfast, I'll kill you both,” Cyv said.

“That wasn't my fault,” Scarlet said, but then the front door opened. Hacks strode in, a bit rumpled, and made his way towards the table where the women were sitting, silently gesturing for Murray to do likewise. Murray said something to the girl, who kissed his cheek and slid off his lap, and he trailed over to join them. Rose finally lifted her head, looking pale and tragic. Cyv pushed a mug of coffee into her hands, and she sipped it tentatively.

“How was last night, Hacks?” Scarlet said with a grin.

“Deep Roads entrance near here,” he said, ignoring her question. Now that Scarlet looked closer, he was pale and a little tragic himself. “Seal might have been breached.”

Murray lit up. “Excellent. We going in?” He'd drunk quite a bit less than the rest of them, being preoccupied with his various pretty brunettes, and seemed to feel just fine.

Hacks nodded. Then he seemed to get a whiff of bacon, went even paler, and grimaced. “Tomorrow.”

  _9:34 Dragon_  

The Emerald Graves was lovely, definitely nicer than a lot of places they'd tromped around, but not without its problems. They had unearthed yet another signpost about the Exalted March on the Dales that day, and Cyv had been upset enough to stalk off as soon as camp was pitched. Scarlet couldn't blame her, not really, but damned if she didn't desperately want her company.

Murray was on mess duty, humming the tune of a song with lyrics so bawdy that he'd been kicked out of a tavern for singing it once; he set aside some food for her and Scarlet cast an easy preservation charm over it, then retired to the far edge of the camp with a bottle of Vintage: Warden Hess (“Notes of sand and vinegar”) because it was the strongest thing she had. She had planned to sit on one of the clever collapsible stools Hacks had made, stare at the fire, drink herself into oblivion, and think of nothing, but instead she noticed the new member of their party. Well, she'd noticed him before. He was about her age, or maybe younger, a bit longer in the Wardens, with blue eyes and magnificent shoulders, and she hadn't met him before he joined them a few weeks ago, so of course she noticed him. He'd been reserved--whether shy or just uninterested she couldn't have said, but he had the resigned, slightly stoic look of somebody whose options had been Joining or death (she'd been unable to get the story out of him yet)—and could on occasion out-sullen Murray. Beyond that, he was apparently the only person in the world who hadn't noticed her noticing him. But she figured he noticed her now. Because he and the others were glancing at her from the other side of the fire.

She pretended not to notice. For all their talk of equality, Wardens were just people, and the unusual made them feel weird. That morning she'd created a raging thunderstorm out of a cloudless day, and her ears were still ringing from some of the closer lightning strikes. Perhaps that had been a slightly overzealous way to deal with a couple of brown bears, and yes everyone had been wet and cranky for several hours afterwards, but Scarlet did _not_ like bears, and she was having a _shitty_ day, and it had been _deeply_ satisfying to turn the pleasant, sunny morning into something that more closely mirrored the way she felt. And anyway, it had scared the bears away. So she didn't care if the others talked about her, not really. She just wished they would stop pretending _not_ to be talking about her.

Cyv dropped onto the stool next to her suddenly enough that Scarlet jumped. “Here.” She held in her hand a small bouquet of white roses, tied up with a red ribbon. “For your...well, for today.”

“Oh,” Scarlet said. “Oh. Thank you.” She took the bouquet and buried her nose in it, breathing deeply of the fresh scent of just-picked flowers, and squeezed her eyes shut. Cyv reached out to draw her into a hug, and they stayed that way until Scarlet felt confident enough to pull away without bursting into tears. “How did you know?”

“Well I almost didn't. Sorry, with all the...I forgot what day it is. _Ir abelas, lethallan._ ”

Scarlet felt herself turning red, but made herself grind out the words in elven anyway. “ _Ma serannas._ ”

Cyv shook her head. “Your accent has somehow gotten worse.”

“I swear I've been working on it.”

“I know, which just makes it sadder.” She smiled, though, took the bottle Scarlet offered her. She made a dreadful face at the taste, and Scarlet snort-laughed despite herself. “Oh bleeding thorns, what _is_ this piss?” She looked at the bottle and sighed. “Hess. Should've known. Tastes about as good as she did.”

“Sand and vinegar?”

“The sandiest.”

They sat in silence for a minute, passing the bottle back and forth, and then Cyv nudged her surreptitiously and glanced towards the men. “Any progress?”

“None to speak of.”

“Well, the day is young. Look.”

Scarlet followed her gaze—the new Warden, Hawke, was heading over, carrying Cyv's dinner. “Hungry?” he said, handing it to her.

“Starved. Has Murray started cooking food, rather than piling shit on plates?” she said, pitching her voice to carry.

“We all wish,” Hacks called back.

“Anybody else is welcome to jump right in on mess duty,” Murray said, making obscene gestures at them all.

“Marrak, have you got a minute?” Hawke asked.

“Sure.” Scarlet tried for a pleasant smile but was pretty sure she failed, so she nodded instead.

“I hear it's your birthday,” he said, carefully neutral, and her gut clenched up.

“So it is,” she said, looking down at the roses in her hand. The firelight made the petals look pale yellow and red, like they were on fire. “Where'd you hear that?”

“Hacklebolt. Just now.” Scarlet glanced around him; Hacks caught her eye, nodded. The shiny new scar at his temple glinted in the firelight. Scarlet had to close her eyes. “He thought...I, um. I know what it's like,” he said. “When it's just you. On your birthday. All of a sudden.” He cleared his throat. “Just. You know. If you want to talk about it.”

“This is cold,” Cyv said, and stood up to stalk over to the fire before Scarlet could think to protest that her preservation spell was fine, it couldn't be cold. Instead she opened her eyes and looked up at Hawke. He had his hands in his pockets and looked lost and uncomfortable, so she gestured at the stool. He sat, folding his long legs underneath, and Scarlet thought she would be appreciating this a lot more if it was literally any other day of the year, because the tears that had been threatening her all day were spilling down her face, and so rather than appreciate the sight for what it was worth she looked back down at the flowers.

“You had a twin?”

“Bethany.” He made a small gesture she only saw out of the corner of her eye.

“Rose,” she said. “A cave collapse. About six months ago. I, uh, couldn't hold the rocks up long enough.”

“It was four years ago, during the Blight. An ogre. I wasn't fast enough.”

“Fucking darkspawn.”

“They said she was a good Warden.”

“She was,” she tried to say, but the words choked her and instead she folded over the flowers in her lap, curling around the tight ball of pain that had spread through her chest. “Does it ever get easier?”

He was silent for a minute. “No.”

Dimly she heard the others turning away, offering what little privacy a small campsite afforded.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“You don't see many mages in the Grey Wardens,” Hawke—Carver, as he had insisted they call him (“Hawke is my sister,”) said a few days later, as the two of them wrestled with a blighted tree near the entrance to a suspicious system of caves they'd blocked off with a controlled landslide. Hacks and Murray were tracking some blighted bears ( _fucking_ _bears_ ), and Cyv was standing nearby, ready with cleansing herbs and a small brazier.

“Nope. One per Circle.”

“Officially,” Cyv put in. “We can have all the murderers and rapists we want, though, lucky us.”

“Be fair,” Scarlet said, and Cyv grinned, “we wouldn't want to steal everyone from the Chantry. Where would they get the forced labor to make all those beautifully enchanted things they sell at a huge markup?”

“Too true. The Divine isn't going to clothe herself.”

“Alright, alright,” Carver said. “Watch your head.” He'd been swinging an ax at the tree trunk, but he stopped for the moment, and reached over Scarlet's head to catch hold of a branch that was in danger of falling. It snapped off cleanly in his hand. “My sister's a mage is why I ask. Both are. Were. Well, Marion is.”

“Oh, what Circle?”

“Well,” he said, in the very particular way that people said “Well” when they were talking about apostates.

“Is that--that must have been tricky, how did they get around the...” she sort of gestured vaguely at the spot on her arm where they'd drawn blood for her phylactery, then realizing he probably didn't know what she meant, said “phylactery?”

“Neither of...our father was an apostate too. We moved around a lot.” He was beet read. “Marion lives in Kirkwall now. Our father had help from a Templar to...escape, so he could marry Mother, and destroyed his in the process. My sisters never had any phylacteries all.”

“Hold on.” Scarlet stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “Are you telling me your _whole family_ are apostates?”

He nodded grimly and swung the ax perhaps harder than necessary. “Except for me.”

Cyv gave a long, low whistle. Scarlet was still staring, which was rude, but she couldn't think of anything to say—she was overwhelmed with a mixture of envy, anger, and admiration. “Well,” she said after a long, uncomfortable minute, turning back to the tree they were meant to be clearing, “I hope Marion stays out of the Gallows.”

“So do I,” he said, almost grudgingly. For a while there was only the sound of Carver's ax hitting the tree, the crackle of the brazier, and the small hum of the spell Scarlet was working to contain the worst of the blight trying to spread. “What was the Circle like?” he asked between swings.

“It was...well, I mean, they're all different. I spent a few years in Kinloch Hold, and that wasn't terrible. Damp, but my room had a window. The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter were on good terms while I was there.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.” He sounded hopeful, and she grimaced.

“Except that I could never leave, or decide what to do with my life, or openly be in a relationship, or go outside--”

“I've heard all that before,” he interrupted, suddenly sullen.

“Then why did you ask? It was a prison, you know? I didn't commit any crimes, all I did was get born. And as for Kirkwall, it's a fucking--” The tree trunk split cleanly in two as her irritation got the better of her control. The stench of taint poured out; they all leapt back.

“Take it easy,” Cyv said, tossing a handful of cleansing herbs onto the brazier and waving it at the black cloud that had escaped the tree.

“How bad is Kirkwall?” Carver asked. She cast a dark glance at him, but he didn't flinch.

“My sister threw away her life to get me out.”

“Why?”

“The suicide rate. And the number of Tranquil who are _years_ past their Harrowing. That's not supposed to happen, you know, it's illegal, but they do it anyway and no one stops them.”

He dropped the ax head to the ground and looked away. “We heard that too.”

“Well, if I were you I'd tell your sister to leave Kirkwall while she can.”

“She won't. Not without our mother. It's--” he scowled deeply, “we lost everything in the Blight and just got it back. Mother's tired of running. We all were.”

“Well that's foolish,” Scarlet said. “Kirkwall is--”

“Don't call my mother foolish, you don't know what she's been through.”

“Enough,” Cyv broke in. “I know a thing or two about running, a _nd_ being trapped,” she said, turning a fierce look on each of them in turn, “and I sympathize, but calm your tits. This tree still needs to be rooted. Get on it, Scarlet. Hawke, start on the next one.”

She'd been a Warden for way longer than the rest of them, so they obeyed. Not without visible resentment, but still. For a while there was only the pleasant sounds of nature, plus the sounds of Grey Wardens doing their level best to destroy it.

“This is the kind of exciting and glamorous work they should put in the recruitment fliers,” Cyv continued after a while, tone purposefully lighter. Scarlet snickered.

“Right next to the bit about sleeping on the ground.”

“And the excellent food,” Carver put in.  
“Well, guess it beats the alternative,” she said.

“That it does,” he said, casually. “Plus, blue looks nice on you.”

Scarlet glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was stripping his uniform tunic off. “It does on you too,” she said, and he paused for just a second with his tunic over his head, as if deliberating. Cyv gave her an encouraging thumbs up.

That night back at camp, as she sat inside the tent she shared with Cyv looking through her bag for something comfier than her uniform to eat and lounge and eventually fall asleep in, she found she just didn't want either of the two tunics she had. They were both clean—ish, there was only so much magic could do—but. Surely—well, no, she knew what she had brought with her (all of it practical, none of it particularly fetching). There was no reason to keep looking. She changed clothes, combed and rebraided her hair, gnawed on her lips and pinched her cheeks for a minute, figured she would just manage, started to leave. “Wait,” Cyv said from her bedroll, where she had collapsed into a short nap immediately upon entering. “Look...bag,” she pointed groggily at her satchel, dumped haphazardly by her feet.

“For what?”

 _“Look,”_ Cyv insisted. Words were not her strong suit when she was half-asleep. Scarlet reached for the bag (the tent was small enough to touch both sides without stretching much), and opened it up. She found what Cyv wanted her to find quickly—there in the carefully wound multi-colored ribbons that Cyv never seemed to run out of was a single ribbon of royal blue.

“How did you--”

“Nice,” Cyv muttered, which could mean any number of things. “It will look nice on you,” or “I am too nice to you,” or perhaps “I am dreaming of being somewhere with an abundance of hot water and nubile young elf-ladies.” Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, when Scarlet pushed out of the tent, she had the ribbon wrapped around the end of her braid and the braid tossed casually over her shoulder to hang over her brown tunic, a little tighter than usual, unlaced a little farther than usual, like it was every day she decided to dress up for dinner. In the middle of the forest. After four weeks on patrol. Sure.

Hacklebolt was working on dinner. “Looking nice this evening, Red. What's the occasion?”

“Whatever you're coking that smells so good.”

“Caught a brace of salmon in the river,” he said. “Pretty excited myself.”

“Not tainted?”

“Not a trace. That's why I kicked Murray off mess duty—wouldn't let him ruin these beauties,” he said, turning the pretty pink fish over to sizzle and crisp on the other side. “By the way,” he said, in a tone at once conspiratorial and extremely put-upon, “Hawke was asking about you the other day.”

“Asking how?”

“Wanted to know if you're with anyone. I'm not a matchmaker, you know. I've got things to do.”

“Of course, you're a very important person with many cares and concerns,” she said immediately, “what did you tell him?”

“That a dead man could see you were interested, and he'd better get on with it before you look elsewhere.”

“Hacklebolt, you're the true Hero of Ferelden and I salute you,” she said, stooping to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Be sure to tell Command,” he said dryly, but there was a smile hidden somewhere under all that face fur. She picked up one of the bottles by the fire, grabbed her stool, and walked over to the nearest tree.

“I'll erect a statue of you myself.” He snorted. “Where's everyone else?”

“At the river. Shaving.” He snorted again. The camp was tucked into a little dell near the river.

“You ever think about shaving?” She sat down and leaned back against the tree, then pulled the small knife out of her boot to dig at the dirt caked under her nails (no amount of magic seemed to help with that).

“No,” he said. “Why, am I spoiling your view?”

“Nothing could spoil that view. Just curious. Where I grew up, most everyone is clean-shaven.”

“I always heard mages can't grow facial hair,” he said just as Carver walked back into camp.

“My father was a mage, but he had a beard sometimes,” Carver said, toweling off his face. His hair was wet, his newly-shaven face was pink from scrubbing, and he was wearing a muted blue tunic. Well. He only had two, and he'd worn the black the night before. Why did she know so much about his clothing? _Because you've been_ looking, _sis. S_ he heard Rose's cheerful voice in her head so clearly she was startled into dropping her knife, and actually giggled. The others glanced at her curiously.

“Did you hear that from a Templar, Hacks?” she asked, trying to turn it back to the conversation.

“I did. Suppose I should have asked you instead.”

“The Knight-Commander in Kirkwall briefly tried to not allow mages razors, arguing they'd be used for blood magic. So it became a point of pride for us all that the male mages be clean-shaven regardless. Made some of the Templars pretty shirty, some started saying it was because they couldn't grow facial hair at all. I didn't realize it had spread. Anyway,” she said, picking her knife up and going back to her nails, “I prefer clean shaven. I like to see what I'm kissing.”

She glanced up briefly, just with her eyes. Carver had blushed to the roots of his hair. “My loss,” Hacklebolt said with a chuckle. “Or maybe yours. You've never known a stimulating kiss like a man with a good beard will give you.”

“It would never last between us. I'd only be using you for the salmon.”

They were both laughing by now, even Carver was smiling, and when Murray returned from the river and Cyv wandered sleepily out of the tent, lured by the delicious smell of dinner, the small camp was comfortable, congenial, and warm. Carver offered up a bit of Kirkwall sea salt he'd been hanging on to, which crumbled nicely on the salmon. They all passed bottles around—Scarlet added some dark red wine to hers and was so pleased at the way it mingled with the fruity flavor left over she made everyone try some (“Ugh, fruit,” Murray declared, but he drank twice anyway; Cyv casually tried to pour it all into hers and Scarlet had to wrestle it back from her)--and then Murray started singing. He had a beautiful voice, deep and rumbly like melodic thunder, and led them all through a couple of rousing songs before the night turned him melancholy and he started in on _She of the Highwaymen Repents_ and _Shred of Blue_. He also made the mistake of singing _Andraste's Mabari,_ which made Hacks and Carver, both born and raised in Ferelden, start to cry and get very sullen, respectively, so Cyv, who had a voice like a songbird, broke in with _The Lusty Young Smith_ , and then, because they all were melancholy anyway, _Suledin_ , which she helpfully sang in the common tongue after the elven.

_lath sulevin_

_lath araval ena_

_arla ven tu vir mahvir_

_melana ‘nehn_

_enasal ir sa lethalin_

 

_Be certain in need,_

_and the path will emerge_

_to a home tomorrow_

_and time will again_

_be the joy it once was_

 

Her voice hung in the air for a minute after she had finished, like a spell that was waiting for a final word to break. Hacklebolt's head hung down, staring at the hands hanging between his knees. Carver lay stretched out on the ground, staring at the sky. Murray had added a low harmony to the last lines, and now he was gazing at Cyv with the undisguised admiration of one craftsman for another. “You've a gift,” he said, at once breaking the spell and completing it somehow.

Hacks nodded. “Aye.”

“I had a friend who used to sing that song,” Carver said. He sat up on his elbows, and looked at Scarlet. “You remind me of her a little.”

“Was she also dying for a bath?” Scarlet almost said, but she just smiled instead, and stood up on legs that had gone shaky at some point, and stretched her aching back, looking up at the stars.

“Well, Wardens,” said Hacklebolt. Now that the spell was broken he was more like his usual self, and he spoke evenly. “I've got good news and bad. You all did well these last weeks, and we're ahead of schedule. Especially today. We've cleared all the taint out of this area far as I can tell. The bad news is...” he paused and heaved a heavy sigh, “that means we have to leave early and spend an extra two days at liberty in Montsimmard.”

He couldn't keep up his facade in the face of the excitement this caused, especially when Cyv threw her hat in the air with a whoop. “I chartered a wagon, we'll be there before week's end. Alright, alright,” he finally said, “enough, everyone get to bed, we make one more sweep tomorrow and I want to make sure it's a good, thorough sweep.”

“I am going to spend an entire day in the bath scrubbing off the stink of this place,” Cyv said to Scarlet as the camp broke up. She clasped her shoulders and kissed her on both her cheeks. “Two days! A whole week!” she continued. “You'll have to bring me food so I don't starve! Fuck this place!” She whooped and kissed her full on the lips, and then fairly bounced away, muttering in elvish.

“She's excited,” Hacks said.

“Aren't you?” Scarlet said.

“Absolutely, can't you tell?” He turned a totally straight face to her, only cracking a smile when she did. “Hawke, first watch. Red, wards and packdown,” he said, and followed Murray, still humming, into the slightly larger tent shared by the men.

“Always with the wards,” Scarlet said, as with a short movement of her hands the dirt around the fire rose up and doused it. Carver gathered up the general detritus of camp to protect against vermin, bears, and rain. Meanwhile Scarlet set up some wards—nothing fancy, just enough to discourage nasties and give an alert if necessary. When it was all packed he stood at odds for a minute, hands in his pockets, and she stood leaning against a tree a little ways from the tents, both watching each other. Scarlet let her gaze sweep down his frame and then back up, and a little smile creep onto her face.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked, quietly so as not to disturb anyone trying to sleep. She nodded and held out her bottle. He ambled over and took it, but didn't drink. “Are you and Tillahanen...” He trailed off.

“Together? No,” she said.

“Oh. I thought...you're so close.”

“She won't have shemlen.” _“My loss,”_ she almost added, but instead she toyed with the laces of her tunic. It was very dark without the fire, but in the moonlight she could just see his gaze flick down, following the movement of her hand, before moving back up to her eyes. He set the bottle down.

“You like elves, then?”

“I don't discriminate. Show me blue eyes and a strong jawline and I'm on board.”

He reached up as if to rub his jaw, then caught himself. “So it's lucky for me she doesn't like humans.”

“Why lucky, are you interested?”

“How would it work out for me if I was?”  
She beckoned with one finger. He stepped closer, and in an act of uncharacteristic directness he leaned a hand on the tree by her head with a slow smirk she could just make out in the moonlight. “Why don't you find out?”she said.

Carver kissed like he handled a sword—with surprising grace and like he had something to prove. Intense, but not unpleasant. Scarlet reached up and cupped his jaw (his beautifully defined, freshly-shaven jaw) with one hand, put her other on his chest. When he started to pull away, she gripped his tunic to stop him.

She hadn't been touched by another person since...it had been a while. After Rose was gone she hadn't been able to think about anything but that. In the time since she'd realized she was not going to die of grief she could've had any number of other Wardens—they weren't a picky lot, nor particularly prudish—but she hadn't _wanted_ anyone else. When Carver put his hands on her waist and pulled her closer, the explosion of desire threatened to carry her away, and when his lips moved down her throat and his hands moved up her torso she twisted her hand in his hair and bit her lip to keep quiet. There were things commonly accepted about sex in Warden camps—you did it outside and you did it quiet, and everybody got a few minutes to rib you about it the next morning. She was going to fuck this beautiful man on the ground in the middle of nowhere—no, she _wasn't._ She gently pushed his head away from her neck, breathing heavily.

“I'm not having sex in the forest,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, equally breathless, his voice several notches deeper, his hands just at the bottom of her ribs, his thumbs brushing along the undersides of her breasts.

“I don't want my ass full of twigs and rocks.” Who was she trying to convince? Herself?

“Me neither. You're right.” He kissed her again. “Montsimmard isn't far.”

“A few days.” She arched her back towards him, gripping his shoulders, wanting his hands on her everywhere. “There's beds there.”

“Right. Beds.” He swallowed, closed his eyes briefly. “But if you stay out here, I won't actually be keeping watch.”

When she slipped into the tent, Cyv was asleep. Scarlet kicked off her boots, and was crawling into her bedroll when Cyv said, loud and clear as Chantry bells on a holy day, “Did you fuck that boy or what?”

“Shut up, Cyv.”

“Well did you?”

“Andraste's fiery knickers.” Scarlet scrambled over to Cyv's bedroll and whispered furiously at her. “I will tell you later if you will just _shut up_.”

“You better,” Cyv said, and then she was asleep again, and the only sound was someone laughing in the other tent.

\---

Scarlet woke up with no idea why she wasn't in her room in the Gallows, spent a second panicking the way she did every morning, and then heard Carver breathing heavily and relaxed.

Montsimmard wasn't exactly the lap of luxury, but it was big enough for all the Wardens in residence to have their own room (though if even half the Grey Wardens in Thedas were to show up they might have to start doubling), it had an abundance of hot food and hot water, and the room that Scarlet was sleeping in, to which she had been assigned by a perpetually harried Constable's secretary's undersecretary's assistant, had a window with a good view. It had a roof and walls. It had a little desk in case she wanted to read somewhere other than bed (unlikely) or do work _(highly_ unlikely). It even had space for her other possessions—she'd got them out of storage, but left the chest by the door, unopened. She'd get to it later. Last night she'd had better things to do.  
She struggled out from under the pile of blankets (scratchy and made of coarse wool, but there were plenty of them at least) and rolled over—he was on the floor, naked as the day he was born, doing push ups. She leaned her chin on her hand, content to watch for a bit. The morning sunlight was coming in the window, illuminating the various muscles working—she hasn't seen him fully naked in the light before, and the luxury of being able to openly stare at one's lover was not one they'd had in the Circle. She said “Mmmm,” and he turned his head without stopping.

“You're awake.”

“Don't stop on my account.”

“Wasn't going to.”

She counted ten, 20, 30. “Ok, though, but we're on liberty.” He kept going, said nothing. “Is that a tattoo of a mabari?” Nothing. She shrugged and lay back down, snuggling into the pillows (utilitarian, but still pillows). “I guess we're not going to do much talking.”

She lost count before he stopped. But then it was pull-ups. She hadn't even noticed the bar hanging from the ceiling. “How did I never notice all this at camp?” she asked, talking more to herself than to him.

“Do you not train?” (this came between grunts).

“Every single day of my life for something like 14 years.”

“Since then?”

“Since then what?”

He dropped from the bar and stretched his arms over his head with a little groan (this, she had to assume, was not entirely for her benefit, but she enjoyed the sight nevertheless). “What all did you train in?”

“Mostly combat magic. Must keep the Chantry's army fresh. Otherwise, a lot of history, how to recognize and resist demons, languages, various illusions I was never good at, weather augury, which I am great at, cantrips to make life easier, a couple of other specialties--”

“No weapons?”

She felt this answer was pat and designed to stir up fear in the average citizen, but it was also true. “I am a weapon.”

“So if someone attacked and you didn't have your staff--”

“Staffs aren't necessary, they just make it easier. Did your sisters not tell you that?”

“Every mage in my family knew how to handle a knife. What if it's a Templar attacking and they've suppressed your--”

“ _Carver!”_ she yelled, and he stopped talking. It wasn't cold in the room, but Scarlet shivered. She sat up abruptly, clutching the blankets to her chest. “Do you have _any_ idea how much—what if someone overheard that?” she hissed, looking frantically at the door to make sure it was shut (it was) and the window to see if anyone was listening (they were several floors above the ground).

“Oh,” he said. “I hadn't thought.”

“We're not encouraged to...” she trailed off, her hands shaking so badly she folded them together (tiny sparks flew from the blankets,whether from static or panic). “We're not allowed to learn physical combat. That's inciting rebellion, in Kirkwall they'll throw you in solitary or worse. I'm not helpless, I know how to kick someone where it hurts, but they discourage--they--all that you just did, they'd assume...”

“They want you soft.”

“Which made my first month in the field pretty hellish, I can tell you,” she said, trying for a joke. “Thought Murray was going to laugh himself to death watching me lug my pack.” Her hands were shaking, and the joke fell flat.

He padded over and sat--she moved her legs to let him sit closer to her, aware of his nearness, the sharp tang of sweat and the underlying smell of sex from the night before, the subtle smell of _boy_ , the tension between them crackling in the air, that little magic that nobody was ever going to fully understand. Her hair was loose down her back; he swept it off her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the topmost of the field of stars. “I could teach you.”

She stopped breathing, lest she accidentally scream or shatter into pieces. “Teach me what?”

“Just in case.”

“Teach. me. what?” she asked, enunciating each word clearly as she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were narrowed; his were wide and guileless. His hand was warm on her back.

“How to defend yourself without magic. Surely it's not illegal for a Grey Warden. It's probably encouraged.”

There were no Templars at the Fortress of Montismaard. Only Grey Wardens, and while there weren't many other mages, there were some. She took his chin in her hand, less like a lover and more like an irritated tutor, and held it as she stared at him, hard. “You could never tell anyone. Not a soul.”

“Marrak,” he said, reaching up and seizing her hand, “I swear to you, on the grave of the apostate who was my twin sister, that I am not a Templar spy sent to entrap you, and that I will keep this secret as long as you bid.”

She slipped her hand around the back of his head and pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes. They let the oath hang in the air for a while—oaths were more binding if you gave them a minute to settle—and then she let her hand drop, and snorted. “Incidentally, since you've been inside me, I'd rather you use my first name.”

He blushed. “Right. Um.”

“Scarlet.”

“Scarlet,” he said, slowly, as if trying it out. “Well, are you hungry, or do you just want to get started?”

“We're starting today?” she said (she whined), flopping dramatically back onto the bed.

“We've only got a few days,” he said, watching her draw a hand slowly down her torso, pushing the blankets down as she did so. He hadn't seen her naked in the light yet either.

“Which is why we're having sex first,” she said. “And then I want a nap, coffee, and breakfast.”

When some time later he slipped his hands around her thighs and said “So that lightning thing that happened last night...” she turned several shades of red and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

“Oh _balls,_ I'm sorry, that doesn't always happen.”

“I bet it could,” he said with what could only be described as a smirk, and she was so surprised she laughed—but then he lowered his head and she stopped laughing, and she thought for just a second of the desire demon she had almost fallen to at her Harrowing, and she wondered, briefly, what tragic heresy had originally made desire a sin, and if there really was no sex in the Maker's heaven, how it could possibly be heaven.

\---

 

They worked mostly in his room. Hers was bigger, but his didn't have a window, so she felt safer. He brought her a wooden training dagger and also a steel one, larger than the knife she used for eating and with two sharp edges, which she tucked out of sight in four different places before she insisted he keep it with his things. Dressed in full plate armor, the bed shoved up against the wall and the rug piled on top of it to give more space, he showed her the weak spots, and then blindfolded her (“this is fun,” she said) and made her try to hit them with the wooden practice dagger over and over again (“this is not fun anymore”). When she could do it consistently, he started avoiding it (“You unbelievable _prick_!”). The second day they ditched the blindfold and started work on escaping grapples. He couldn't suppress magic (“Just promise you won't do anything you can't fix,” he said), but they could pretend. She was neither strong nor wriggly, and neither did she particularly wish to escape when he held her even if his armor was uncomfortable, so they spent a fruitless afternoon bickering and slept alone. The third day they met over breakfast, and they made up in the closest empty room. That day the lesson went better, so that while she still couldn't escape, she could usually get the tip of her wooden dagger into a vulnerable spot.

They kept at it for two more days, and she got steadily better. He pretended not to be holding back most of his strength and speed, and she pretended not to notice him doing it. And every day, exercises, though she drew the line at running. They worked hard, and by lunch on the last day of the week, she could wriggle free more often than not. So she declared a holiday. They took lunch to an easily accessible roof overlooking the courtyard and spent the rest of day there, watching people and talking.

They talked about their training, and what it was like to look in the mirror and see the face of someone you were always going to miss, and how food all tasted different after you'd drunk the blood of a darkspawn. They danced around the dangerous subject of families, referred obliquely to the politics of mage imprisonment in the Circles, and mutually decided that there were things better left unsaid, at least at first. Instead they compared patrol stories, talked about the Blight, lamented how so few Wardens could cook worth a damn, and for a while he threw rocks in the air and she shot them down with tiny firebolts and they mocked each others' technique (carefully; cross-class trash talk required a delicate balance). She pulled the ribbon out of her hair and tied it around his wrist (he accepted this with a long-suffering sigh until she said “Aren't warriors supposed to wear their lady's favor?” which cheered him up). They spent a long time not talking, until someone leaned out a window across the courtyard to call out suggestions, and then they got dressed again. He played with her hair a bit. And at some point, as they sat watching the sun set over the towers of Montsimmard, his arm draped around her shoulders, she realized she was humming.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

“Someone is going to ask about that,” she said over lunch the next day. Carver paused in the act of shoveling food into his mouth and gestured at the shiner on his left eye.

“This? I got it in the ring this morning. Long before you woke up.”

“I didn't give you that?”

He seemed amused. “No, sweetheart.”

“Are you kidding? Son of--well, I can still fix it.”

He shook his head. “Too much healing of little things and the others start to think you've gone soft.”

Scarlet snorted to show what she thought of that. Cyv was sitting with a table of her elf friends nearby; she heard the snort, looked over at the two of them, and made an approving gesture. Then her eyes got big and her gaze went past Scarlet's head; Scarlet turned, confused, and said “Oh.”

Warden-Commander Fontaine carried herself as one might expect a veteran Warden to, but Scarlet's eye was drawn past, to the woman standing next to her. Warden-Lieutenant Clarel was a surprisingly small woman, short for a human, strong and wiry for a mage, old for a Warden because she had Joined so late in life. Her staff, a beautiful creation of dragonbone strapped to her back, was easily as tall as she was. “Hello, Wardens,” the Warden-Commander said. Carver didn't quite dump Scarlet off his lap in his rush to jump to his feet, but it was a sudden movement and he had to steady her when they were both standing.

“Warden-Commander,” Scarlet said. “What a surprise.”

“Please, sit. I don't mean to interrupt your meal.” Her Orleasian accent was soft to the ear and she gestured for them to sit.

“Will you join us?” Carver asked.

“Alas, I cannot. Always something else to do. Clarel, was this...?”

“It was, ser.”

“People have been talking my ear off about you, Warden Marrak,” Warden-Commander Fontaine said.

“And mine as well. I'm sorry we didn't meet before.” Clarel held out a hand to Scarlet, who took it with a mixture of feelings she couldn't quite place. Her hand was as wiry and tough as the rest of her, with the undeniable rumble of incredible magical power underneath. “We have so few mages. It is good to see more of us amongst the ranks.”

“You always say that,” Warden-Commander Fontaine said with a brief, fond smile at Clarel. “We won't keep you,” she continued, “I believe mealtime should be kept sacrosanct insomuch as possible. Enjoy yourselves, Wardens.”

“I look forward to watching your career.” Clarel's smile was thin and short, but it was a smile, and then with a nod to both of them she and the Warden-Commander went on their way.

“Holy scattered turd ashes.” Scarlet didn't sit so much as fall back down on the bench, her voice so high with excitement she could barely hear herself. “Did you see that?”

“What, a mage favoring another mage and ignoring me?” he said, voice icy. When she looked up at him he was still standing, glaring at his lunch like he wanted to stab it. “It's just like at home.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I was at Ostagar. I thought at least--nothing. Forget it.” Without a glance or another word he scooped up his sword belt and stalked out of the mess hall. Scarlet was trying to decide if she was irritated, hurt, or just confused when Cyv launched herself into the chair on the other side of the table.

“Did I eavesdrop right that Clarel and the Warden-Commander of all the entirety of Orlais both just sought you out specifically?” she asked, breathless with intensity.

“You did,” Scarlet said, a giant grin spreading across her face as she decided she was content to let Carver's tantrum not bother her.

Cyv said a string of excited things in elven that Scarlet hadn't a hope of following. “Clarel's on the shortlist, you know? It's her and Blackwall and a couple of others. And she mentors Warden mages, it's a point of pride to her, but she's really picky. You must have impressed somebody. Wait, _did_ you impress someone else? Like, _impress_ them?” She waggled her eyebrows.

“No, I haven't started sleeping my way to the top yet.”

“You're still young. Come with me, the others want to hear your accent.”

“You said it was terrible!” Scarlet protested as Cyv grabbed her arm and tried to drag her over the table.

“That's why they want to hear. Come on!”

\---

 

She couldn't find Carver anywhere when she got around to looking for him, and finally it occurred to her to check the practice arena. She'd never been there—it wasn't near the library, the mess, the baths, or the wine cellars she and Rose had once got in trouble for breaking into, which was the extent of her knowledge of this place—and she spent a fair amount of time wandering the halls before she had to admit that she wasn't going to find it on her own. She stopped to ask an older Warden-Lieutenant named Marchal, who gestured vaguely and said “Down that way, twinkles, why?”

Scarlet almost said “What's it to you, meat shield?” but gritted her teeth and fought the urge. “Twinkles” wasn't necessarily insulting, but it was neither friendly nor particularly respectful (plus, Murray had thrown it at her once in the midst of a screaming match that had almost come to blows shortly after Rose's death, and she was never going to like hearing it). “I've just never been there before,” she said before she realized he was asking why she was going there at all. Well, to be fair, she wasn't dressed for it—was in fact wearing sandals, and only armed with half a cookie left over from lunch. Not exactly combat gear. “I'm looking for someone.”

“Oh, right.” This seemed to comfort him somehow, as if his understanding of the world was unchanged. “Make a right, then two lefts, then it's the second door on the right. Mind you don't wander through the ring,” he added with an almost indulgent smile. Scarlet decided he was making a joke (the alternative, that he thought she was that stupid, did not bear thinking about), gave a halfhearted chuckle, and rolled her eyes as she walked off.

It was bright and noisy and overly warm in the arena, the sun angling over the top of the western ramparts and striking off the sand with visible heatwaves. The air was choked with sand and dust, and it _reeked_. Scarlet liked to think she had seen enough in the last few years to adjust to things quickly, but she still stopped in the doorway, momentarily flustered. There must have been something like this in the Circles—the Templars had to train somewhere—but she'd never been there either.

The first thing she noticed was a bunch of people running around in armor, bashing into each other with what looked like live steel while a bunch of others whistled and yelled from the sidelines. There was archery over to the west, where most of the elves seemed to be gathered regardless of their weapon of choice. There was also hand-to-hand, close enough that over the din she could both see and hear Murray bellowing at a huge guy with the unmistakable wobbly-deer look of a new recruit about him. There was one space that seemed to just be for the hurling of heavy things into other things, though to what purpose she could not have said. There were a couple of grizzled veterans gathered around a rickety table, all of them ancient by Warden standards, yelling and sloshing their mugs and stabbing their daggers at their hands (ugh, she _hated_ when they started Five Finger Filet), as well as a handful of people running laps or doing other activities she couldn't begin to identify. It struck her that this was probably why she so rarely saw anyone inside the fortress during the day.

The whole arena smelled a little like battle did: sweat and blood and steel and aggression, but cheerful and without the stench of darkspawn. There were no other mages present, which shouldn't have felt as notable to her as it did.

She was blocking the door. A pair of Wardens gave her curious looks with their nods as she scooted out of the way so they could leave. One was an elf named Samven, an ax the approximate size of a tree over his shoulder; he was one of Cyv's cousins, and they'd met a couple of times before. He seemed to recognize, and maybe identify with Scarlet's increasing feeling of being out of place, and he stopped to say hello, accepted the bit of cookie she broke off to offer him. “You here to work, Marrak?”

“Andraste's tits, no,” she said without thinking. He laughed. “Seen Hawke?” She looked in the direction he pointed, and finally spotted Carver—in the middle of the melee, which she probably should have expected. “Thanks.”

“You're going to want different shoes,” he said as he left.

Hacks was there too, at the sidelines; after a bit of hesitation she drifted over to the sparring ring and edged through the crowd to stand next to him, hands in her pockets. He gave her a nod but didn't take his eyes off the melee. “What's the objective here?”

“Winning.”

“Alright then, who's winning?” she asked, trying (and failing) to kick some of the grit out of her sandals. He jerked his thumb at the battered old chalkboard next to him. After a second to decipher his handwriting she sussed out that it seemed to show Carver tied with Cecile Bouchard (a tall drink of Orlesian champagne so staggeringly beautiful and notoriously picky Cyv broke her “no shems” rule when their patrols had met up a few weeks prior, and Scarlet had been so impressed she couldn't also be mad), just behind Philippe Sant Biçente. There were twenty on the board, but most were crossed off and now hung back while the three top fighters did their...whatever. Suddenly Hacks yelled “Point!” and Bouchard threw down her helmet. She said something that made the others laugh, then picked up her gear and jogged to the edge to a smattering of applause and shoulder slaps. Meanwhile Carver and Sant Biçente squared off.

The fighting has been too fast for Scarlet to follow before. Now it got faster. Steel flashed and clanged, spectators shouted encouragement or taunts, money changed hands, and then Hacks was shouting “That's it!” and apparently it was over, because the two of them were shaking hands—then embracing, then as a bunch of other combatants came up to surround them, one of them kissed the other, she couldn't quite tell whom. Hacks coughed, surprised, and when they didn't break apart and the spectators grew louder he muttered “Andraste's knickers” and glanced at Scarlet uncomfortably.

She shrugged at him, thought briefly about whether a sandstorm (easier) or a thunderstorm (more dramatic) would be most satisfying, and said “So who won then?”

“Um, Hawke did,” he said. “Barely. It was close.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Did you talk to the Warden-Commander about me?”

“I did,” he said, looking suspicious about this change of direction.

“I appreciate it.” She turned, and went looking for the library.

\---

Sant Biçente found her in the library a little while later. She'd been outside for a while, in the small adjoining courtyard where mages sometimes gathered for casting when there was more than one of them in the same place, but it was shady, slightly overgrown, and totally empty, and it lent itself to mild depression better than righteous fury. So she went back to the familiar ground of heaping stacks of books, where she threw her energies into—pouting? Hiding? Brooding? Certainly not reading. Pitching a small fit, perhaps.

(When powerful apprentices were in a fit of adolescent pique, it wasn't uncommon to see miniature storm clouds form over their heads. She knew that was dangerous, and _dumb_ , especially when there were no Templars around to keep an eye on what could be attracted to that kind of unchecked rage, but she sort of wished it would happen anyway. There was something really cheering about tiny peals of thunder warning everyone that you were in a shitty mood.)

She was standing at the shelves in the history section, comparing two different texts to see which she thought would be most satisfying to drop heavily on the desk when he showed up. He was freshly bathed, dressed for leisure, his skin glistening, his hair twisted tight against his head to show off his perfect cheekbones and truly unfair bone structure. “Ah, Warden Marrak,” he said, the low musical tones of his voice and beautiful accent quiet in deference to the fact this was a library. He smelled like elfroot, probably for injuries. “Am I disturbing you?”

She set the books down, considered him, smiled. “No, not at all,” she said in Orlesian, at which he looked surprised. “I'm just...reading.” She settled on the less serious word that meant “passing time with a pleasure book” rather than “studying something important.”

“Your Orlesian is good. Are you from here?”

“You flatter me. We had to pick a handful of languages in the Circle. Perhaps Orlesian is not as useful for magical study as some of the other tongues, but it's hard to convince a starry-eyed young girl that she need be concerned with utility when there is so much smutty literature to be read.”

Sant Biçente laughed. “I think we would have got along well as starry-eyed youngsters. A pity we did not know each other then.” (Scarlet _thought_ that was the informal “know” of good friends, rather than the intimate “know” of lovers, but the words were only an accent mark different and she wasn't sure. Orlesian was the perfect language for flirting.) “I came to apologize. It seems I unknowingly overstepped some boundaries this afternoon.”

“Ah,” Scarlet said. She tilted her head, gave brief consideration to how much effort it would take to set his stupid perfect face on fire, reminded herself that he was apologizing and it wasn't his fault. “That's very thoughtful of you, but you couldn't have known.”

“I crave your pardon regardless.”

“I could perhaps be convinced to grant it,” she said, extending her hand, which he swept up in his, “but what incentive would I have to do so when I know that I am so very pretty when I'm angry?”

He gave a laugh. “If I'd known you were so delightful when you're jealous I would have overstepped much sooner.”

She glanced behind him, saw what she wanted to see, and tugged his hand until he stepped closer, though he raised an eyebrow. “I believe I would enjoy that,” she said.

“Not that I'm not flattered, but--”

“Am I interrupting?”

Carver was standing at the end of the aisle, his arms crossed and a prodigious scowl on his face.

“You wicked creature,” Sant Biçente said in Orlesian, raising an eyebrow at her. Scarlet had the good sense to cast him a guilty look and mumble a brief Orlesian apology (the specific phrase only applied when you were using someone to make someone else jealous, which was apparently a very popular pastime in Orlais), which he accepted with a nod. “Truly I don't know which of you I envy more,” he said in the trade tongue, then extracted his hand and walked off, and Scarlet crossed her arms and regarded Carver evenly.

“I'm surprised you know where this library is,” she said once they were alone.

“Alright, you're mad.”

“More confused. I thought you'd wait a bit longer between fucking me and trying to fuck someone else.”

“I wasn't—” He flushed. “He kissed _me.”_

“And you stopped him, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Eventually.”

“Well what the hell were you just doing?” he demanded.

“Accepting a very nice apology.”

“That's not what it looked like.”

“How would you know? You haven't apologized.”

“Do I need to? You two seemed pretty comfortable. If I'm in the way--”

“ _I_ seemed comfortable? You were the one with your tongue down his throat.”

“I'm sorry, alright? I got caught up in the moment.” He said this only a little grudgingly. “What were _you_ doing?”

“Oh Maker, you know what,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “I was trying to make you jealous.” She grumbled this, aware it was ridiculous. He didn't reply immediately, but the corner of his lip twitched. “I know, go ahead and laugh.”

“I wasn't going to,” he said, though this was clearly a lie. He uncrossed his arms and for a minute it looked like he might reach for her, but he didn't. She didn't know if she wanted him to or not.

“Did it work?” she asked lightly.

“What if I say yes?”

“I'd feel a little less silly.”

“Then could we go eat?”

She grinned. “Maker, yes, I'm starving.” She held out her hand and he took it, started to pull her close, then stopped.

“Is this...” He gestured between them, “what is this to you? How serious?”

“How--serious do you want to be?”

“Well I don't like to share,” he said.

“Neither do I,” she said pointedly.

His grip on her hand tightened. He crossed the distance between them, slipped that arm around her waist so that her hand was caught behind her back, bent his head and kissed her firmly as she got a handful of his hair in her other hand. When he broke off, she nipped his lower lip between her teeth, and he caught his breath. “So no one else,” he murmured when she let him go.

“At least not without me there too,” she agreed, and he kissed her again and shoved the books off the desk, and then someone in the next aisle said “Can you not?” with a long-suffering sigh, and they broke apart and didn't bother to pick up the books.

They barely made it to her room. By the time they stumbled through the door she was already in his arms, and between kisses she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed—he grunted. “What's wrong?”

“Got knocked around a bit.”

“I can fix it.”

“No, don't.”

She rolled her eyes. “That's ridiculous.”

“It's bad form to walk around like your comrades couldn't touch you in the ring--”

“Whatever, pretend,” she said, pressing a healing spell onto his ribs. He grunted again, but didn't argue, and when she stripped his shirt off a second later she could see a pretty sizable bruise healing. “Desk,” she murmured, and he scooped her up and obliged (sweeping all her things off in a gesture that was just as delightful the second time), setting her on the edge and pressing close so she could wrap her legs around his hips. His kisses had grown more insistent, his hands firmer, as if he was claiming her attention, as though she could think of anything else, as though she _wanted_ to think of anything else, as though he hadn't already moved in to her thoughts and set up housekeeping there--she broke off the kisses, fastened her lips to a spot on his neck just above where the collar of his tunic would fall, and he groaned but didn't stop her, and then she grabbed his head and made him look her in the eyes. “I want people to know you're mine.”

“And you.” He yanked her tunic open (she heard a couple of laces snap), slid his hands inside. “You're mine.”

“Maker, yes. And you're mine.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Good,” she said, and kissed him like the world was ending.

\---

Carver was deep in the process of not sharing when someone came knocking on Scarlet's door later that night, so much so that neither of them noticed until the door was fairly vibrating. “Occupied!” she yelled. The banging did not stop, but Carver did, making a frustrated noise as he dropped his head onto her shoulder.

“They're not going to go away.”

“I don't care.”

“I can't—”

“Seriously?”

“It's _distracting._ ”

“Oh _fine._ ”

She shoved him off, took a second to drag a blanket around herself before she stalked over to the door. She glanced at Carver to make sure he was decent, then flung the door open in irritation. “What—oh,” she said, backing up several steps in surprise. She heard Carver scrambling out of bed.

“Warden Marrak,” said Clarel, and then, glancing behind her with a carefully neutral expression, “Warden Hawke, the Warden-Commander requires you both in her office for a briefing and ready to move out within half an hour. Cold weather gear up to several months.”

“Of course,” Carver said at once. He tried to salute, almost lost the sheet clutched around his waist, turned several splotchy shades of red all over.

“Half an hour?” Scarlet almost said, but she closed her mouth instead and saluted as best she could in her present state of dress.

Clarel paused. Her carefully neutral expression never changed, but she did lower her voice. “Of course, if I could not find you for another twenty minutes...”

She shut the door behind her as she left.

They ran into Warden-Commander Fontaine's office just under an hour later. Cyv and Murray were there as well, plus Sant Biçente, a human mage named Holzer (out of the Cumberland Circle, she socialized very little even with other mages), Samven, another elf named Rirana, a dwarf carrying a wicked bow, and two other humans she didn't immediately recognize, one a very tall woman, one smaller young man who looked a little worse for wear. All were kitted out for cold.

“That's everyone, Warden-Commander,” Clarel said, closing the door behind her. Fontaine, studying the long map table that dominated the room with Hacks, looked up at her and issued a thin smile as Scarlet edged into the middle of the crowd so she could see, next to Cyv.

“Couldn't find you?” she muttered. Scarlet elbowed her.

“I'm sorry to take you all from your liberty, especially during dinner,” Warden-Commander Fontaine said. “There's little enough joy in a Grey Warden's life. But we have received intelligence that must be acted on immediately.” She gestured at the table before her at a succession of detailed maps. Scarlet couldn't make out what they were of. “The information discussed here is strictly for the ears of those in this room.” She looked around the room, meeting everyone's eye in turn and not moving on until each person had nodded or murmured their acknowledgment. “Only a few of you have been to Tevinter.” (Scarlet brushed her hand against Cyv's, and she took hold of it.) “As little as I'd like to send you back there, you're the best Wardens we have available for this. We've been given information leading to a darkspawn breeding program.”

“Breeding program, ser?” someone said. “Like broodmothers?”

Fomtaine shook her head. She looked, now that Scarlet was watching her more closely, slightly ill. “Yes and no. Broodmothers, but not typical broodmothers, if there is such a thing. We believe that they’ve been created and are being…managed by a group of magisters—let me finish,” she said, holding up her hands at several audible intakes of breath and a couple of curses. “We can only assume that they intend to create controllable darkspawn. What could possibly convince anyone to do such a thing I cannot say. Those involved, or their patrons, have power and influence enough that the Magisterium has refused to hear us on this, and to be honest it sounds so ludicrous I can hardly blame them. But this order has launched deeper expeditions with less certainty, and so I turn to all of you.” She paused for a minute, looking around. “Now, I know this is great deal of information, much of it bizarre. You must have questions.” She gestured, opening the floor.

“Does this have something to do with the Architect, ser?” Holzer asked.

“It's possible. Fortunately there will be no royalty tagging along this time,” she added with a dry smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

“You spoke of our people inside, ser,” said the tall human woman, who she now recognized as Bouchard. Fontaine nodded.

“We have two people still inside. Both Wardens. One man, one woman. There were three Wardens amidst a number of people; the third escaped and managed to carry word before she--” there was just the slightest hitch in her voice here, “died. You'll be given her full report on the way.”

“I was under the impression that we couldn't be made into broodmothers anymore than we could--” Scarlet cleared her throat, “have babies.”

“Insofar as we can surmise, the Wardens are being harvested for their resistance to the call of the Old Gods. There are normal captives for other purposes.”

“Harvested?” said Bouchard, sounding horrified. Fontaine nodded.

“Which brings me to another point. If our people still live, if they are still identifiable to you as Wardens, help them to as good an end as can be had, but do not hope for it. If you wish them mercy, hope instead that they died long ago.” The Commander of the Grey let that sit for a minute, waiting for more questions. When none appeared to be forthcoming, she nodded again. “You're to get in quickly and quietly, and leave no trace. You are not to leave a single thing left alive, not darkspawn, person, or animal. Raze it to the ground.”

The shorter human made a noise of agreement. Fontaine gestured at Clarel, who stepped forward to roll up the maps in leather.

“Warden-Lieutenants Ayla and Stroud will join you with additional people and a mabari unit at the border rendezvous,” she said. “The Magisterium is not prone to look favorably on anyone they are likely to consider Orlesian spies. Get in, destroy everything, and get out. Should things go badly, there is no possibility of extraction and you may well spark a war between Orlais and Tevinter.”

Fontaine looked around the room again. “Anyone wishing to request a deferment, speak now.”

For a minute Scarlet didn't have any idea how to even process that. She'd never been offered the opportunity to say no to a mission before, not once in—what, three years? She didn't even have the chance to say no to being recruited—Hacks and the others had shown up, invoked the Right of Conscription, and that was it. Aside from whether they stabbed, shot, or bludgeoned their enemies to death, Grey Wardens didn't have a lot of choices in their lives. Anyway, what was the alternative? Sitting at home? Carting bricks for some desperately needed infrastructure repair? Flogging (did they do that?)? Being the subject of everyone's ridicule for the rest of your short, lonely life? The Deep Roads? Potential suicide mission or no, at least it wasn't the Deep Roads (probably. They usually mentioned the Deep Roads ahead of time). And it's not like they weren't all on borrowed time already.

The crux of it, though: she hadn't asked for volunteers to go, she'd asked for volunteers to back out. That meant somebody would have to be the first to request deferment, in front of Andraste and everybody. For whatever else they might be, Grey Wardens were an elite extra-national military force who lived short, violent lives and died messy, violent deaths. They forgave a lot in your past (murder, rape, arson, apostasy, regicide, goat-fucking), allowed a lot (less, but still a lot) in the pursuit of duty, but she had never seen even the appearance of cowardice go without punishment, official or otherwise.

There was some shuffling and someone coughed. Cyv hummed deep in her throat but didn't say anything. Scarlet glanced at her out of the corner of her eye—her jaw was clenched, and Scarlet's hand was starting to ache from her grip. Cyv was staring hard at the desk where the maps had been, but for all she was trembling with tension, she didn't seem to be about to speak up. The elves here had just as much to prove as anyone else. More. Scarlet had just made up her mind to request clarification on what a deferment would entail, exactly, and was trying to figure out how to say that in a non-incriminating manner when Fontaine nodded a final time, apparently satisfied.

“Come back from this alive and I swear to you, barring another Blight you'll have a whole six weeks at liberty,” she said, and that was that. Cyv let out a tiny sigh and her grip relaxed. “Do not fail. Stop this. By whatever means necessary.” 


	5. Chapter 5

They left immediately, and rode all night and through the next day, when they stopped to swap mounts at an outpost and then rode again. It should have been quite thrilling, but having jumped straight from vigorous sex to an all-night horseback ride in the space of an hour, Scarlet was in total, uncontested agony within a short time, and feeling much too sorry for herself to really be concerned with the mission ahead. Or indeed anything other than staying upright. When they finally stopped to camp at dark a full day after they started, she sat on the horse and stared at the ground, trying to decide if it would hurt less to swing her leg over the horse's back, or to simply fall off.

She didn't seem to be the only one. Sant Biçente groaned loud enough to startle the horse when he dismounted, and Holzer had been crying silently for several hours. The Dwarf dismounted, took a few staggering steps, said “My people are not meant to ride these beasts,” and threw up.

“Told you not to drink so much last night,” Samven called.

“What was I supposed to do?” the dwarf shot back. “We were on bloody liberty.”

A couple of others vanished into the woods, probably unable to wait until latrines were dug. They were the worst, but there was no shortage of grumbling and pained stretching. While she was weighing her options (she could sleep on the horse, right?), Carver dumped his gear on the ground and simply plucked her from the horse's back and set her on her feet.

“Show off,” she muttered, leaning her forehead on his shoulder regardless.

“Pride of the Grey Wardens, you are," he said, but he rubbed her back a little anyway.

“Shut up.”

“See to the horses and quit bitching,” Hacks called. “Red, what's the weather look like?”

“Clear all night,” Scarlet called back without looking up. “What do you think, Holzer?" 

“I agree,” Holzer said after a minute (Scarlet was not surprised; it had not been a necessary question. She'd done the forecast for the coming month on the ride, and for all it was solely to try and distract herself from how very much she wanted to be unconscious, she would have staked anything on its accuracy. Still, it was polite to ask. No need to alienate the only other mage she'd spoken to in months and months).

“No tents. We ride out at first light,” Hacks said.

Camp went up quickly for all that the Wardens were exhausted. There hadn't been much space to talk during the ride, so when Scarlet's part was done she looked for Cyv, but found Holzer first. Jehanne Holzer was very average—average height and build, no real distinguishing features except her curly blonde hair, which she kept under ruthless control of pins and scarves. Even her staff was innocuous enough to pass for a walking stick if you didn't know what to look for. If you didn't know what to look for, you might underestimate Warden Holzer quite a bit.

She greeted Scarlet politely. Her eyes were red from crying but she seemed in good spirits otherwise. “How did our midnight ride treat you?” Scarlet asked.

“It was unpleasant.”

“You can say that again. I'd turn my ass into an ice block if I thought it would help.”

“It might,” she said thoughtfully. “But you'd need to be concerned with bloodflow and frostbite, not to mention the risk of accidental shattering. That would, of course, be a disaster. I'd recommend a simple ice pack application as your best choice.”

“That's the longest sentence I've ever heard you speak.”

Holzer made a polite noise of agreement. Scarlet grinned.

“I'm glad you're here. It gets tedious being the only mage in a camp, doesn't it?”

“I haven't found it so,” Holzer said, “but the Warden-Commander chose you, so I am glad you are here as well.”

“Thanks?” she said, not sure if that was truly a compliment or not.

“And,” Holzer added with a shy smile, “it will be nice to have someone competent to share warding responsibilities with.”

Cyv approached them then and grabbed Scarlet by the hand so hard it hurt. “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course,” Holzer said, and turned back to her gear as Cyv pulled Scarlet away.

“I need you to listen, and I need you to hear me,” Cyv said. Her eyes were wide, shining in the dark. “I will not let these Tevinter bastards take me alive. Not again. If I'm not able to stop them, I want your word you will, or if it comes to it, you will _kill_ _me._ ”

“Of course.” Scarlet covered Cyv's hand with hers and looked at her, at the small lines around her eyes, at the scar on her eyebrow, at the lighter, longer, almost artistic scars that peeked out of her hairline. “Cyv—I would never leave you behind, _emm'asha,_ not anywhere, but especially not here. If need arises, I will do what you ask. You have my word.”

They let the oath hang in the air for a minute, then Cyv nodded. “Thank you.”

“I owe you that much.” Scarlet pulled the shorter woman into a hug and spoke into her hair. “If it comes to it, though, I'd try to rescue you before I mercy killed you.”

“Of course you would, I'm irreplaceable,” Cyv said, but she sounded tired. 

\---

 Four days of hard riding, stopping for fresh mounts at two outposts, and they had one more to go before they reached the border rendezvous. By then they had all recovered and were looking, Scarlet thought to herself, the way elite shock troops should. She was sitting straighter, she had done 10 push ups altogether that morning, and even re-wrapped the grip to her staff while they rode, adding some exorbitantly expensive enchanted quillback leather Holzer had got from Andraste knew where. She was so optimistic about the results she got permission to slip off that night and try it out away from camp (“ _Far_ away,” Hacks instructed. “Don't get lost, but don't set us all on fire either”). The increased flexibility of movement, plus a new tendency for fires to burn about 10 degrees hotter and in different colors, almost made her forget how much money she now owed the other mage.

Her staff was Circle issue, but was looking like a proper Warden's staff—cobbled together out of parts for efficiency and power rather than beauty, but with an undeniably pleasing aesthetic to it. After Rose died she had taken to burning important symbols into the body, beginning with an elaborate griffin, based on Rose's tattoo. She'd added dozens of images since, some larger and more complex than others: a sunflower worked with passages from the Canticle of Shartan for Cyv, a black circle for each of the annulled Circles, a wandering floral motif for no one in particular, six loose talons for the Warden-Recruits whose Joining she'd seen go badly, three feathers for the Wardens she'd known who'd answered their Calling. She was watching a purple and green fire burn cheerfully, suspended two feet over the ground, and wondering if or when she should think about adding something for Carver when she heard his voice behind her. “You are so lovely.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said without turning around.

“How are you feeling?”

“Great, why?”

He had his arms around her before she even realized he was so close behind her, pinning her arms to her sides.

“Sneaking off, are you, mage?” he said. A smile crept over her face.

“Do your worst. You'll never get me to admit anything.”

“Oh come on, you're not even trying to get free.”

“No, why would I--” She craned her neck around to peer at him. “Sorry, what did you come out here to do?”

“I thought--” He cut off abruptly as she turned her hands to knead his thighs. “Oh,” he said, comprehension dawning. “Oh, _right_. Well, uh, I'm not sure I believe you. Desertion is a serious offense,” he said, and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck.

Afterwards they slept for longer than they'd intended, curled up on his cloak, and snuck back into camp just before dawn. Sant Biçente was already awake, sitting up on his bedroll; he gave a knowing smile but didn't say anything.

\---

They reached the border rendezvous early, just past midday, so there was time for hunting and preparing a decent meal while they waited for the others. Probably the last hot meal they'd all have—soon they'd be in the Imperium, and on strict no fires policy, traveling at night. Scarlet somehow wound up on mess duty with Hacks, and as she started up the fire the dwarf, Meren, dragged up a deer, shot cleanly only once. “Thought you might enjoy this.”

“This stringy beast is all you could find?” Hacks asked, but he was smiling as he looked it over.

“If I could only have found a couple of nugs,” Meren said with a heavy sigh. “That's good eating.”

“Oh, I've never had one, are they good?” Scarlet asked.

“Stones no, I'd rather eat my own foot. Human,” he said, turning to her with a severe look and actually wagging his finger at her, so that she laughed, “dwarven food is revolting. When you go for your Calling, bring your own rations or you'll starve to death before the darkspawn ever get close.”

It was just before sundown when the second party showed up. By then Hacks was working on dinner in earnest, Scarlet assisting. Sort of. _“No,_ Red, what—Andraste's ashes, put it _down_ ,” he said, as exasperated as she'd ever heard him outside of an actual life-or-death situation.

“You said cut it against the grain!” she protested.

“What you're doing is the opposite of that.”

“But--oh, cooking is _dumb_.”

“You only say that because you're bad at it.”

“I say that because there are better ways to wind up hungry and covered in goo.”

He snorted. “Just see to that fire and stop ruining my deer.”

“You knew this would happen when you assigned me to mess duty,” she said as she encouraged the cooking fire in its present course (the campfire, nearby, was well on its way to bonfire status--she hoped someone was keeping an eye on it amidst all the other work, because it seemed overly excited and she had never been much good at controlling fire).

“Here, look, _this_ is what I meant. Pay attention,” he said with a serious look. Scarlet turned all her Circle-trained focus onto it, but by the end she still had no idea what he was talking about, or how his present actions differed from what she'd been doing, and was ready to declare the whole thing a wash, but it was painfully obvious he was not going to give up. “By Andraste's knickers, Red, you'll learn to cook if it kills us both,” he declared, gesturing emphatically with the very sharp knife with which he'd been slashing at various bits of animal carcass, his voice loud enough that several people laughed.

“Didn't work with Murray,” Cyv said as she passed.

“Like your cooking's any better, Blondie!” Murray yelled from the other side of the fire. Cyv made an obscene gesture over her shoulder.

By the time dinner was dished up Scarlet was covered in much more goo than she would have liked. If the deer had cooked up well, it was entirely due to Hacks, but he gave a grimly satisfied nod. “You keep practicing, you'll get better at it.”

“The hell I will,” she said, combing a gob of something she'd rather not think about out of her hair. Hacks merely wiped his hands and went off to join the other Warden-Lieutenants for what was doubtless going to be a very serious discussion, leaving Scarlet to clean up.

The weather held fair, just chilly enough to make warm gear feel cozy, and the setting sun was orange so vivid it looked like the horizon was on fire. Scarlet paused to watch it after she finished cleaning up. One of the perks of specializing in weather augury was going outside more often than usual—hard to study weather inside—and sunset had always been her favorite time of day in the Circles. On a good day she had told herself it meant another day closer to...something different. On a bad day, it had at least meant an hour of peace while the Templars went to their vigil, or prayer, or circle jerk, or whatever they did in the Chantry at sunset. On a _really_ bad day, getting through another 24 hours without doing anything irreversible was victory enough. Nowadays it meant crawling into bed next to someone she liked, with the knowledge, growing slowly into something like certainty, that whatever else was going on, she was out of that place forever. That was a bigger victory than she would have hoped for three years ago.

The sound of music pulled her back. The human she didn't know had turned out to be Sant Biçente's younger brother. He had somehow managed to squirrel away a small guitar with his things, which he handled deftly, and while she didn't know whatever Murray was singing, she heard enough synonyms for various bits of anatomy that she had a good guess what it was about. It was rare to get so many Wardens in one place in the field, and somehow or another a cask had come along with the second party. It was going to be a good night. She cleaned off her hands, put her gloves back on, grabbed her own plate, and went to look at the circles of Wardens around the fire.

Carver was sitting with Sant Biçente, Bouchard, and the dwarf, as well as two humans who weren't Wardens but had come in with them anyway, bringing two giant mabari and two puppies, barely weened. She waved and he waved back, smiling brightly, but she kept looking. Cyv sat with her cousin and another elf nearby. All in all there were twelve Grey Wardens and two civilians gathered around the fire, and it looked a merry picture indeed. And not too far apart, but seemingly apart regardless, sat three Grey Warden mages: Holzer, Goswin Steiner, who she had met a few years before, and an elf.

Scarlet made her way to them, and Steiner jumped up to greet her when she did. “Marrak!” he said as they grasped each other about the forearms. He was tall and weedy, and no amount of years had managed to help him lose the bookish look one developed when one grew up in a Circle. Scarlet thought he was perfectly adorable, but got the impression he hadn't been as lucky in his companions as she had--which is to say the non-mage Wardens gave him a lot of shit, especially the male ones, and he looked ecstatic about the company. “I heard about Rose, that's a damn shame. She was a wonderful woman. I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Scarlet said, squeezing his arm. She tilted her head, looked up at him. “She liked you a lot, you know.”

“Wait, what?” he said, surprised. She grinned.

“A _lot_ a lot.”

“I never noticed,” he said wistfully.

“I guess you wouldn't have. She was brutally shy.”

“Shy? _Rose?”_

“I know, but she was. Ever since we were kids. I think...” she trailed off, finding a lump in her throat she couldn't quiet speak around. Steiner dropped his head.

“She was wonderful,” he repeated. “I'm sure you miss her. We all do.”

“On the other hand,” she said, “if she were still alive, she'd kill me for telling you she liked you.”

He laughed at that, but it was a sad laugh, and he held on to Scarlet's arm a little longer. “Come on, you should meet the others.” He directed her towards the other mages. “Not every day you get four whole mages on the road. Wish I'd brought some better wine. You know Holzer, I guess? And this is--”

“Valenna,” said the elf, who was quite tall and lovely and had a dark scowl on her face. “I am not one of your Circle slaves, so please do not insinuate that I am.”

“...right,” Scarlet said. Even Holzer, sitting just behind the elf, pursed her lips. “Wasn't going to.”

“Speaking of the Circles,” Steiner said, sitting down and clearing some space so Scarlet to sit next to him, “have you heard who the new Imperial Enchanter is?”

“Not another fool content to play the court jester, I hope,” Holzer said.

“Vivienne de Fer.”

That had exactly the impact he must have wanted—Holzer's jaw dropped and Scarlet said “Maker's tits. She'll eat them alive.”

“That seems unlikely,” Valenna said.

“It's a metaphor.”

“I understood that.”

“How will that affect the Loyalist's cause?” Holzer asked.

“She still hasn't joined them,” Steiner said.

“No, but she aligns with their views,” Holzer said.

“For mages other than herself, sure,” Steiner added. Holzer nodded reluctantly.

“That does seem to be so,” she allowed. “Still. One wonders how having a sympathetic voice so close to the throne will impact the importance of that fraternity. Have you ever met her?”

“Just once. My Harrowing was less frightening,” Scarlet said.

“Oh surely that's an exaggeration,” Holzer said.

“Not much of one,” Steiner agreed. “I can't remember ever meeting anyone so stuffed with power. It comes off her in waves, makes you dizzy. If she wanted to she could rule...well,” he said, and abruptly changed the subject.

Scarlet hadn't realized how much she missed talking shop with other mages. They all exclaimed with delight over Steiner's new staff, which was made of silverite and felt, as Holzer said with uncharacteristic poetry, “like holding all the power of winter.” He wouldn't tell them how he'd afforded that much of the rare, wildly expensive metal, so they took turns making assumptions until he choked on his drink when Valenna suggested he'd slept with someone very wealthy. She and Scarlet seized on that like sharks on blood, teasing him mercilessly until Holzer forced a change in subject. Valenna wasn't exactly fun, but she had a sharp sense of humor and a disregard for nonsense, and also had some interesting ideas for wrapping that Scarlet was able to incorporate into her new grip for a little extra reach. They swapped potions and recipes and spell modifications and gossip and new insulting terms for non-magical combatants (many too esoteric and pretentious to actually insult anyone except the person saying them), they yelled about who had made the best choices in specialty studies, they competed to see who could twist colored smoke into the most complicated shape using only charms from the third year study books, and they played with runes in ways that would have made any Templar very nervous even had they not also been steadily getting drunk, which they most definitely were. It was comfortable, refreshing—she hadn't felt so at ease in years, she had _missed_ this.

“I find I agree with what you said the other day, Marrak,” Holzer said, leaning back against a pile of gear. Steiner had his head in her lap and she was happily running her fingers through his perpetually messy brown hair as he gazed up at her. “About it being nice to not be the only mage in camp.”

“Do you ever miss the Circle?” Steiner asked. “The...” He waved his hand vaguely.

“No,” Scarlet said, startled. “Not at _all._ ”

“Not even...you know, being with other mages?”

“Sometimes I miss the camaraderie, and the shared knowledge,” Holzer said. “And the library. Oh, the Cumberland library is such a treasure.” She sighed and looked up at the stars, as if seeking knowledge there.

“One does grow weary of being a curiosity all the time,” Valenna admitted. “Though that is due to my race as much as anything, and I doubt being a prisoner of the Chantry would help that.”

“Exactly,” Scarlet said. “I see what you mean, but I really just wish there were more of us in the Wardens, right? I don't miss the Circle.”

“No, me neither,” he said. “I'd be in blighted Kirkwall by now anyway.”

“Oh, I'm so glad you're not,” Holzer said. “I hear such terrible things.”

“Kirkwall is a _shithole,_ ” Scarlet said.

“Right,” Steiner agreed. “But...you ever notice how they--” he waved his hand again, this time in the general direction of the rest of the camp, where an impromptu wrestling tournament had started up some time ago, “act like...if you're not swinging a sword you're not doing any work?”

“As though manipulating the primal elemental forces is not taxing,” Valenna said. “Yes. I have noticed this. And it does seem because I am not carrying a blade, my duties have somehow a tendency to double. We are vessels of incomprehensible power, not their servants.”

“Here here,” Steiner muttered.

“Rust-brains,” Holzer muttered. “Fuck 'em.” She hiccuped.

“That's the first time I've ever heard you swear,” Steiner said with a lopsided smile.

“Well I don't like to make a habit of it,” she said, blushing.

“You're pretty when you swear. But you're pretty all the time.”

“Marrak,” Valenna said suddenly, “will you walk with me?”

“Um?” Scarlet said, but Valenna was already yanking her to her feet and she was finding she was drunker than she had thought, and comprehension dawned on her as and the two of them walked/weaved away, and Holzer leaned down to kiss Steiner full on the lips.  
“That was sweet of you.”

“You sound surprised. I am not unfeeling just because I do not find your jokes amusing. Where shall I leave you?”

“Anywhere. I'm not so drunk I'm going to get lost in camp.”

“As you say. Before I go, this evening was not a waste of time and you seem competent, so I am glad you are on this venture with us.”

“Thank you, that's so nice!” Scarlet said, clapping her hands together. “Hey, do you like women? Can I introduce you to my friend Cyvren? She'd like you so much, and she's so pretty.”

“How pretty?”

_“So_ pretty. Prettier than me. Prettier than everyone. And just so smart and...you know, good. She likes elves. Well she is one. And she likes them.”

“That is kind of you, but I do not...” she trailed off, and just then the Warden-Lieutenants broke from their conclave and were yelling for attention. The two mages sidled over to join the group.

“Alright, Wardens,” Ayla was saying as the company quieted down. “Here's the...” She stopped and looked around. “Out of curiosity, who here is _not_ drunk?”

A couple of hands went up (Scarlet raised hers; Valenna scoffed and slapped it down). A couple of people coughed, or laughed and tried to hide it with a cough. “Are you not, Warden-Lieutenant?” Sant Biçente called. “We can fix that.”

“On your supply? I'd die of sugar overdose before I got tingly,” she shot back, to general mirth, which she allowed for a time before raising her hands for quiet. “Come on then, settle down. You all may be giant drunks, but we still have a mission briefing.” That settled the Wardens down. Scarlet was weaving on her feet; the female mabari handler noticed and scooted over so she could sit next to her (Valenna preferred to stand, she said to keep Scarlet from falling over. Scarlet did not think she could object to that).

The briefing didn't last long, but every Warden present had been horrified into, if not sobriety, at least composure by the end of it. When Ayla had finished, she looked them all over quietly to let the information sink in.

“We leave tomorrow, first light. We should cross into Tevinter late afternoon, at which point we are on strict stealth, traveling by night. This is our last night with a fire and a tent, so I hope you enjoy it. We leave our mounts at the next outpost. On a more positive note, I understand that the mabari pups are ready to be imprinted, so if you're interested, see Kennel Assistant Marks. Warden Stroud has your assignments going forward.”

When they had their assignments, Ayla sent them to bed. They went quietly, subdued and serious. Despite her words to Valenna, Scarlet did get lost before she paused at the entrance to what she thought was the right tent. The sleeping arrangement had been rather piecemeal, and she thought she remembered where it was, but the wine and the briefing had done a number on her head and she just wasn't sure. Well, whatever, at this point she would sleep almost anywhere. She heard a sound from inside, but too late to stop herself pushing it open—there was her gear, stashed in the corner, this was definitely the right place, and there were Cyv and Bouchard, tangled in each other and Cyv's bedroll, beautiful and sweaty, all angled jaws and glistening skin and luscious curves, and totally oblivious to the outside world. Scarlet rubbed her eyes and tried to decide if she was incredibly aroused, burning with jealousy, or just drunk and sleepy. After an embarrassingly long second she settled on the latter and gave a heavy sigh. “I want to go to bed, people.”

“Lovely!” Bouchard called. “Come join us--”

“No,” Cyv said loudly.

Scarlet, slightly stung, zapped them both with a tiny bolt of lightning. If they hadn't been in a shared tent she would have followed it up with a rainstorm. “Not in the tent!” she snapped. “Fuck each other outside like everyone else!”

"It's cold!" Bouchard said. 

"Life's tough!" Scarlet retorted. 

“You are heartless,” Bouchard said with a pretty pout, but they gathered up their things and slipped out anyway.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks later, the excitement of sneaking around Tevinter had long since worn off, replaced by tedium and trail rations and perpetually cold fingers. The Wardens crept along quietly, spreading out during the night so as not to miss anything, and had seen no sun since crossing the border, just alternating drizzle and sleet. After a long night spent walking, tracking innumerable signs that ultimately boiled down to the instincts granted them by their tainted blood, they'd crowd together in whatever sort of shelter the rolling plains offered, eat cold trail rations, sleep badly, and get up again as soon as it was dark. The days were short and the nights were long, everyone was hungry and on edge, and nothing was dry. You could carry around flameless fire in jars if you had mages who could do the spell (they did, and it earned Steiner a good deal of overdue praise), but that only went so far when it was 20 degrees outside.

Scarlet was having terrible dreams.

They all were. There was never much time or focus for conversation, but it was always the same--nightmares, not like those during the 5th Blight, for those who remembered it, but worse than usual. Grey Wardens didn't get sick easily—something about the taint made them resistant—but Stroud and the younger Sant Biçente both caught a miserable flu of some kind (Stroud was the proud curator of an extraordinary ginger mustache, and the state of it after four days of sniffles and vomiting was almost worse than the nightmares). Even the mabari seemed unhappy. Cyv, struggling with the dual demons of Tevinter and the darkspawn, had gone very quiet and ashy, snapped whenever anyone spoke to her, muttered to herself the rest of the time. There was one bright spot--she had successfully imprinted on one of the puppies, a pretty brindle who had surprisingly delicate features and constantly brought back the remains of wild hares (and once, a pair of dirty pantaloons) to lay at her feet. It growled at anyone who approached her, which didn't make anyone else happier but seemed to ease her mind (Gerolf got the other one—also brindle, not as pretty but probably going to be bigger given the size of its paws. It was friendlier, perhaps because Gerolf was less edgy).

Scarlet was worn out with tedium, disappointed in her inability to get a puppy, cold all the time. Her nightmares more often than not were about Rose's death. They were not helpful, and they were getting worse.

The consensus over the last few days was that everyone's nightmares were getting worse.

“We're getting close,” Stroud said to no one in particular as they packed up one night. In the morning they spotted the quarry, not far in the distance, a small village between them. The Warden-Lieutenants called a halt and sent the scouts ahead. Cyv ran back quickly to tell them the village was totally abandoned, and the other Wardens moved into it while the scouts went on towards the quarry.

The village was small, really more of a crossroads—one building that may have been an inn, a small stable, and the remains of a few other buildings, all empty. There was evidence of fire and struggle, but no bodies, no signs of taint or disease, and the inn was solid enough. Most of the holes were easily covered. “Get comfy, Wardens,” Hacks said. “We could be here a while. Enjoy it while you can.”

“But be quiet about it,” Ayla added.

Several hours into their unexpected reprieve Scarlet stood with Holzer, just finishing their project of reorganizing and taking stock of their remaining potions and alchemy supplies, when Carver edged up behind her and whispered “I have called in every favor I was owed, and we have hot water and a room to ourselves, but only for the next hour,” in her ear. His hand slipped just under the hem of her shirt, and her shiver had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Um,” she said, her hands full of Royal elfroot.

“I am capable of finishing this on my own,” Holzer said evenly. She glanced at Scarlet out of the corner of her eye, her expression serene. Scarlet didn't wait to be told twice.

After, but not nearly long enough after, she was roused from what might actually have been a mild coma by someone banging on the door. “Hawke,” Hacks called from the other side, “if you don't hurry it up you'll be on latrines for three weeks instead of two.”

“Latrine duty?” she asked. Carver nodded sleepily.

“I count you worth the cost,” he said, and turned his face to burrow into her shoulder as an unexpected warmth blossomed in her chest.

“Two weeks though?” she said, trying to sound light and silly, but instead her voice broke and she realized she was crying. Carver looked up at the hitch in her voice.

“What's--are you alright? Did I hurt you?” he asked, alarmed, reaching up to brush her tears away with his thumb.

“No.” She shook her head. “I'm alright. Just...” The words caught in her throat. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes against the enormity of whatever she was feeling, kept crying. “Happy.”

“Maker's breath, me too. That was...”

She gave a watery smile. “Not just that.”

“No. Not just that.” He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her forehead, and Hacks banged on the door again.

\---

The rogues returned from scouting ahead a day and a half later, and were treated to all the comforts the other Wardens could come up with in the little abandoned inn. It was good luck to be nice to your scouts. Otherwise they'd get back from working for two days while you sat on your ass, and “forget” to tell you about a hidden bog or a huge swatch of poison ivy. Scarlet was hanging around the main room working on some tonics while the younger Sant Biçente, cured of the worst of his flu but still coughing, gave his report to the Warden-Lieutenants, confirming what they'd sort of assumed—the quarry was long unused, stripped of its minerals. They reported some signs of squatters' camps, hastily abandoned within a couple of months. “You can feel the taint spreading from the earth,” he said with a shudder. “Stinks of corruption. There's a door at the bottom. We couldn't make heads or tails of it, though, one of the mages should have a look at it.”

“Any sign of comings or goings?” Stroud asked.

“None. Doesn't look like the door's been opened in weeks. Dust and ice three inches thick. No footprints, nothing. Either there's another entrance, or nobody's leaving. We cut a swath five miles in either direction, found nothing. All the signs point to that door.”

“Get some rest,” Ayla ordered, and Sant Biçente gave a tired salute and went off, hopefully to crawl into bed.

“Red,” Hacks said, “you speak a little Tevine. Know anything about their magic?”

“Er,” Scarlet said.

“Suspect it's not a big focus in Chantry Circles,” he offered.

“You four get down there and see what you can make of it anyway,” Ayla said. Scarlet stood up, pushing her tonics into the corner where hopefully nobody would play with them. “I'll go too. Bouchard, with us.”

\--- 

“Alright, but what if it _is_ blood magic?”

They had been at the door all damn day, and the stench of darkspawn, the unholy combination of sulfur and corruption and filth, had never quite receded like most bad smells. It was sleeting again. They were all gathered under an outcropping in the rock above that would have shielded them from the sleet, except that it was coming down sideways. Bouchard was on watch, bored. Ayla was by turns frustrated and equally bored. The mages, having poured over every spell, ritual, translation, and text they could think of, many more than once, playing with repetition and inflection and language and times of day, had passed the point of frustration long ago, and were well into impotent fury.

“If it is blood magic,” Scarlet was yelling at Steiner, “it probably requires the sacrifice of a dozen slaves to work! What is your _obsession_ with blood magic?”

“I'm not obsessed!” he yelled back, his face going white (and to be fair, that was the kind of accusation you didn't lob around lightly in the Circles, but Maker's hairy ballsack, they weren't _in_ the Circle). “Is this or is it not the suspected stronghold of rogue Tevinter magisters? How _else_ would they protect the entrance?”

“Well do you have a bunch of expendable life force laying around so that we can test your theory? No, you don't, so shut up about it!”

“If we had enough lyrium we could force it without blood,” Holzer said from between her hands. Even her never-ending determination had flagged the second time the smell made her throw up.

“I suppose you have a lyrium depository hidden in your underthings,” Valenna snapped.

“I suppose you have something useful to add rather than just being rude.”

“It says elf blood--” Steiner said again.

“By the Dread Wolf,” Valenna suddenly burst out. She stuck out her hand and a dagger flew out of Ayla's sheath. She caught it, slashed her palm, slammed it against the wall. The other mages all winced instinctively, but nothing happened. “Elf blood. _Nothing._ This is not so simple.”

“Can you figure it out or not?” Ayla broke in, striding over. “Not that this isn't well and truly entertaining,” she added as Valenna handed back her dagger. Scarlet looked at the others; they were all looking around at each other, waiting for someone to say something. Steiner was the senior by a few years and Holzer they acknowledged as the best of them, but Scarlet had got her hands on more than a few questionable texts on Tevinter magics in her life and Valenna had studied things that Circle mages simply didn't. “Well?”

“Ser, we don't know,” Steiner finally said. “None of us speak this form of the language. Basically no one does anymore.”

“Yes, you expressed that earlier. Figure it out. This is your duty.”

“Saying that doesn't make it possible,” Scarlet muttered as Ayla stalked back to where she was waiting with the rest of what the mages had quietly dubbed their honor guard. Steiner snorted with something like tired laughter. The others didn't bother.

“These words,” Valenna said, pointing at the phrase they had loosely translated as meaning “blood of an elf” (the actual translation was a lot more...harsh), “we need to know more about them.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Your being reluctant to acknowledge its importance does not make it less so.”

“It would help if we could read it at all,” Scarlet muttered, glowering at the carving, which weather and time had done a number on.

“It's not related to _soporati,_ is it?” Steiner was standing on a rock to get a better look; he scrubbed at the words with his sleeve, pushing away dirt and gunk to better get a look at it. “Do we need a non-magical elf?”

“Hang on,” Scarlet said. “Let me see.” Steiner gave her a hand up and she stood on her toes to look. It was still above their heads—Valenna levitated them all (Holzer moaned at the motion; Steiner put his arm around her then hastily let go as she turned and threw up again, mid-air; Valenna made a face and said some things in elven that made Steiner say “Don't talk about her like that” and then Scarlet had to stop them incinerating each other) so they could peer at it face-to-face. They'd done this before, for what felt like hours, but there had been something nagging at the back of her brain for a while and she needed to look closer. The four of them stared, pointing and tracing and debating. Finally, when Valenna said “Whoever made this carving was a hack,” it dawned on her.

“Oh _shit_ ,” she said. “It's an elven slave.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” Steiner asked with barely disguised disbelief.

“Oh Maker, you're right. I can see it now,” Holzer whispered.

“I've seen this term before. In a...bit of contraband,” she said, and did not feel it necessary to mention the text in question was a smutty, and truly awful, novel. “Andraste preserve us _._ Maker's fucking fuck _fuck._ Valenna, could you set me down? I need to speak with the Warden-Lieutenant.”

\---

“If you were anyone else, I'd punch your face in.”

Cyv and Scarlet were sitting on the floor of what might have once been the inn's pantry, their knees touching like they were kids playing clapping games.

“I might do it anyway. How fucking _dare_ you.”

“I'm just—I'm sorry,” she said instead of trying to explain something there was no justification for. Cyv's hands were clenching and unclenching, and she was staring hard at Scarlet's throat as if considering how it might feel inside them. For a minute neither of them said anything.

“You really think this is the solution?”

“It's the best I can think of. The others are still working.”

“Maybe they'll come up with something that isn't one of your weird sexual hangups,” Cyv spat (Scarlet bit back the urge to protest, barely). “Creators save me from kinky mages. Don't follow me.” She got up and stalked out of the room, and Scarlet sat in the dark, alone.

In the end, they tried a tiny sample, which Cyv provided to one of her cousins in private and the mages carted back to the door. “After all,” Holzer said, “we really have no idea how the Joining changes the blood. I have a theory that--” The door hissed and several of the runes burst into light, and Holzer never did finish telling them about that particular theory.

Cyv slashed her own arm, splattered her blood in a few different places on the door. She wouldn't let anyone else do it, and wouldn't talk to any of the human mages at all, so Valenna pointed out the spots they had identified (the elves stood together for this, a little wall between her and the mages. Even the other humans and the dwarf were eyeballing them. Scarlet pretended to be very interested in what was going on with the runes so she didn't have to look at anyone else). An inner chamber within the larger doorway cranked open slowly. Cyv bound up her arm in a cloth (no magic), and disappeared with the rest of the scouts into the damp, stinking dark it revealed. The rest of the Wardens waited for the all-clear, and then, as the snow that had been threatening all day began to fall, they followed.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The briefing, however detailed, had not prepared them for what they found. Nothing could have. The tunnels, all man-made (Meren had some words to say about their construction), went on for miles, and were full of darkspawn. Fighting in the dark was never fun, less when you were trying to attract minimal attention. Darkspawn ichor burned if you got it on your skin, so they all stayed bundled, adding sweat to the fun without actually helping, because darkspawn ichor got everywhere no matter what you wore. It was hard, hot, dangerous, filthy work, a dark slog through mud and blood and unidentifiable muck, and despite all their attempts at stealth, they must have missed someone, because when they finally found the stronghold, the magisters inside had dug in deep. They were expecting company. (“At least we were right about there being no other exit,” Meren said, much later, after the last of the magisters was dead.)

There were five of them. It seemed few had ever been in combat—real combat, where you had a thousand things to keep track of at a time, not just duels and assassinations. They had knowledge and power—a lot of power—but mostly on a theoretical level. If it was just the magisters, the Warden mages could have handled it on their own and everyone else could have fucked off back to the crossroads and had lunch waiting when they got back. They weren't alone, though. Of course they weren't.

They seemed to have exhausted all their darkspawn already, but had a sizable company of hired goons still to hand. The mercenaries weren't very committed, and Scarlet was confused as to why they would have held on to these particular troops for their last-ditch defense until a few tried to give up. Any who bolted or surrendered were suddenly and violently yanked back across the room by invisible strains of magic, where it soon became apparent that the magisters were harvesting them for blood magic, their shrieks of agony rising over the general din of combat.

There was no way the Warden mages could match that kind of power without similar measures—but the bad guys were still outgunned and outmatched, even if the remaining mercenaries had suddenly redoubled their defensive efforts, and bringing their own bloodbags mostly kept the magisters from trying to drain the Warden warriors who were hacking away at their defenses, and the Warden mages split up to keep up the barriers and beneficial magics on their allies or dispel the ones on their enemies, and the Warden archers kept at the mercenaries from the flanks, and it was tricky—but “We're winning this,” Hacks said grimly, chopping a merc cleanly in half as Scarlet ducked behind him to turn another one to stone. The two of them exchanged fist bumps, she refreshed his barrier, and then he hoisted his ax and charged off towards the magisters.

“If they're using blood magic they can't be healed!” she yelled to him.

“Don't tell me how you know that!” he yelled back. Across the room she saw Carver go vaulting over someone to land sword-first on someone else (and thought briefly that she was never going to get tired of seeing that happen), heard one of the high, ululating battle cries that Cyv only used when she was feeling extra bloodthirsty, and almost laughed. They _were_ winning this. Maybe they'd get out of this place in time for a decent dinner.

Except that the Veil was thin here—purposefully made that way, Valenna suggested later, and Holzer agreed—and when they realized they were losing, the magisters summoned the demons.

Scarlet's Harrowing had been extremely underwhelming; she had never encountered a pride demon at all, in or out of the Fade. She nearly pissed herself when she saw it stepping through the Veil. The chamber was so tall the top was only visible because the pride demon's horns brushed it, bringing down chunks of rock to shatter on the floor, knocking over its enemies and allies alike. When it roared, even the most hardened veterans staggered. It brought with it a pair of long, thin floating creatures that might have been arcane horrors, a dozen rage demons, what seemed like a million wisps, and she heard someone sobbing in terror and realized with a start that it was her.

In the resulting chaos she managed to wedge herself into a crevice, out of the way of the warriors and the demons alike, with Nicolas Sant Biçente behind her, firing arrow after arrow as she alternately enchanted them and cast her own spells, worrying at the demons and scanning the battlefield for Wardens who needed support or retrieval, but leaving the swords to engage the magisters directly as she fought back her panic and tried to _think._ Rage demons: fire. Pride: electricity, she could barely touch it. Arcane horrors: necromancy. Most of the wisps were red. Magic flew in every direction, the majority of it fire-based, and she thought briefly that at least it wasn't freezing like it was outside--that was it. She saw her opportunity. The magisters had specialized a little too much.

Scarlet forced herself to calm down, to breathe evenly, in for three out for three, focusing her breath to time with her casting the way they'd been taught in the Circle, tapping into the reserves of power deep within her. With a gargantuan effort she reached out and up, through miles of rock and stone and dirt, and _pulled_ down the falling snow, whipping it into a frenzy, creating a blizzard inside the chamber. She felt another mage adding their power to it—precise and powerful, it was probably Holzer—a third laid directly into the pride demon with a couple of spirit hexes that it did not like at _all_ , the fourth brought down a perfect crushing sphere/mana drain combination on the arcane horrors, who had foolishly got close enough to both be caught. The snow took care of the remaining rage demons. The magisters were distracted enough to forget about the free mercs, who bolted to a man. And then it was just a war of attrition.

The storm wanted to dissipate—it knew it wasn't in the right place, the two mages were only keeping it here by brute force. Then the other mage broke off with a start that left Scarlet reeling (probably meant injury, but she couldn't think about that now). The spirit hexes were still going strong, but no other support seemed to be forthcoming. She chugged her final lyrium potion, pushed her staff until it vibrated with the effort, but her grip on the storm was weakening and the pride demon was still laughing. And Cyv was behind it—she was sneaking, barely visible, but pride demons could _see_ things, and it was slowed by the cold but not slow enough. She lept like a gazelle onto its back, scrambled up to its head, raised her shortsword, brought it screaming down into one of its eyes. It roared, but then it caught her in its fist, icicles shattering from its skin as the mabari scrabbled at its knuckles, the sound of someone screaming echoed in Scarlet's head, and Scarlet flipped her staff so the blade slashed her thigh, a shallow cut just above the knee, and slammed her hand on the wound, and as blood began to flow around her fingers the rush of power burst from the end of her staff, shattered the top, swept all the snow into a wedge, caught the sword in the demon's eye, and drove it through the head and out the back with an explosion of ice and bone and the unidentifiable matter of demon brains, and it staggered, stopped, and fell.

The magisters fell soon after.

The Wardens kept one alive for questioning. (“Cut off his hands,” Holzer suggested upon learning this. “It will not stop him casting forever, but it will stop him casting any time soon.” Her advice proved quite accurate. Samven took his time; the magister was far too busy screaming, throwing up, and then passing out to do any casting.)

Scarlet ran full-tilt to Cyv, shoving people out of the way and vaulting over debris, tripped and slid the last few feet on her knees. Cyv was unconscious, her pulse fluttery. Pinkish fluid leaked from her nose and the corners of her eyes. “Holzer!” Scarlet screamed as Cyv began convulsing.

Holzer hobbled over as fast as she could on what would later turn out to be a broken ankle and got to work. “Stabilize her,” she said, and the only thing Scarlet could think to do was cast _paralyze_. Meanwhile Steiner showed up behind them, and Scarlet, who knew nothing of the healing magics beyond basic first aid, moved out of their way, twisting her battered staff in a panic. “She'll live,” Holzer said after a few minutes of intense work, and Scarlet let out all her breath in a rush. Holzer sat back, looked at her grossly misshapen ankle, and grimaced. “Set her over there and bring the others.”

Holzer worked triage on the wounded while Scarlet snatched unused cloaks and kicked rocks away, setting up a spot for Cyv to lay as comfortable as possible. Steiner mended Holzer's ankle, then nearly passed out before they realized the side wound he said was just a scratch had actually broken several ribs and collapsed one of his lungs. Holzer, after she patched him up, ordered him to rest so near to tears that he conceded, and Valenna took his place. Scarlet swept the area for any remaining demons or traces thereof, then wearily went went to help them as she could. If there weren't demons involved, a lot of minor injuries wouldn't need magical attention at all. There were, though, so everything had to be looked at. Everything.

Cyv was the worst of the injured. The extent of her head trauma was unclear and would be until she woke. The elder Sant Biçente had a shattered arm, easy enough to fix, but he would need to lay off the sword-work for a while (he heroically made jokes about this that didn't hide how very pale he was). Stroud had lost a good chunk of his mustache in a burst of flame, was inconsolable about the mustache and indifferent to the skin of his face. Otherwise, several wrenched joints, a lot of wounds, bites, and burns, not life-threatening but painful and wicked dangerous if infected, which all needed attention and cleaning. “What happened to your leg?” Carver asked while she smeared some elfroot paste on his neck (the reek of herbs mixed with the other stenches in not-pleasant ways, she was never going to get the stink of this place out of her nostrils).

“Caught it on the new staff blade, it's longer than I'm used to. You're done,” she said, “try to keep your hair out of it.”

“Are you saying I should get a haircut?”

“I'm not not saying that.”

“I kind of like it longish.”

“Sweetheart there's people waiting,” she said, rubbing her thigh, which hurt more than it should (of course, that was what happened when you—she shied away from the rest of that thought). Carver kissed the cleanest part of her forehead, giddy as a schoolboy, before she shoved him away so she could see to Nicolas Sant Biçente, the last of the non-mages waiting for attention. He'd dramatically thrown himself in front of her when the pride demon fell and its horns shattered, and managed to get several dozen shards buried in his arms for his trouble.

“I saw what you did,” he said without preamble.

“You'll have to be more specific,” she said, holding up his arms one at a time and casting at them with tired fingers. The pieces of horn all came out in one piece, thanks be. “Holzer, what do I do for a shard of horn?” she called.

“Felandaris,” Holzer responded, her voice drooping with exhaustion. “It sounds backwards I know, but the use is well-documented. I have some here. Unfortunately it's a mixed preparation, so you'll need to add spindleweed and stir it towards the northwest.”

“Hold tight for a minute,” Scarlet said, starting to get up, trying to remember which way was northwest, but he grabbed her arm to stop her. He was smaller and quieter than his brother, just as handsome, but without any of the joy, younger than her by many years (too young for this, she thought suddenly), and his eyes were narrowed.

“You used blood magic,” he hissed.

“Excuse me?”

“I _saw_ you.”

“You have Templar training? That sure would have been handy ten minutes ago when there were demons everywhere.”

“You don't have to be a Templar to recognize blood magic.”

She leaned closer, swallowing her initial reaction, which was to panic and deny everything. “Well maybe if you'd spent less time watching me and paid more attention to the _monsters,_ I wouldn't have had to nearly kill myself dragging a snow storm through six miles of rock.”

“You cut yourself, that's blood magic.”

“What exactly do you think our little Joining ritual is?”

“A necessary evil,” he said ( _party line,_ she thought, _well done there_ ). “A stop-gap. And I guess you thought this was too. Just...”

“Just remember I can turn you to stone if I want,” she thought about saying, but didn't. He seemed to get the point from her glare, though, and also seemed to realize he was holding her tighter than necessary, because he let go. She rubbed her arm pointedly and didn't say anything, staring hard at him until eventually he looked down.

“It's dangerous,” he said, as if that should be news to her.

“Next time I want magical advice from an archer barely out of puberty, you'll be the first one I talk to. Go ask Holzer for some felandaris. _Politely.”_

There was a small chamber off the large one, an office of sorts, and the Warden-Lieutenants were methodically bundling everything up. Scarlet ducked inside to help, or maybe to hide, and was given the task of fishing papers out of the remains of the fire. She was still shaking from the exertion of the storm, and couldn't quite summon up the energy to pull the papers out with magic, so she had to use her hands. She only singed her fingers twice. At least it was warm.

The large chamber had a door that opened up into yet more tunnels, but they were empty of threats and only led one way, deeper into the earth (“How far down are we, do you think?” Murray asked at one point, and Meren started to go into detail on his calculations before he was shushed into silence by Wardens already feeling claustrophobic). At the end there was another door, which opened into a large open room (at the far end was a chasm they couldn't see the bottom of. When someone lit a flare and tossed it down, it fell for a very long time and vanished without hitting the bottom).

The smell was indescribable.

The woman—the broodmother was still alive. Barely. With her last hissing breath she birthed a fresh wave of— _baby darkspawn_ , already running, already ready to destroy. It was grim work killing them, grim and disgusting, and by the end Holzer wasn't the only one throwing up.

The rest were all dead. Darkspawn, hundreds of them, and humans and elves and dwarves too. One male Warden, he'd been dead only a couple of hours. Richard Bean, missing for years. Between the taint and whatever the magisters had done to him, he was unrecognizable except for a tattoo of a naked woman riding a griffin on his bicep (“He called her Yvonne,” said Murray, and Scarlet didn't know whether to laugh or cry).

They took all the corpses of people into the center of the ledge, laid them neatly in rows, searched their pockets for anything identifying. Holzer took meticulous notes on their appearance, but it was difficult—they were all tainted, some beyond recognition. They had little wood for a proper pyre, just twisted strips of cloth wrapped around beams torn from the pens. Valenna took care of it. Magical fire always burned the hottest.

They dumped the darkspawn corpses down the crevice.

They set more fires as they left. What wouldn't burn, they broke. What wouldn't break, they froze and then broke. The destructive force of a dozen Grey Wardens, egged on by heartbreak and anger and sheer discomfort, was unleashed on the facilities, and by the time they had all piled back into the quarry and Holzer sealed the door behind them with a ritual Scarlet was too far gone to care to discern, there wasn't much left of the facilities to seal off.

\---

Nobody wanted to stay near the quarry again, but Ayla loudly ordered everyone to go the fuck to sleep, and as adrenaline wore off it was generally accepted this had been the correct decision. The nightmares eased when the darkspawn were all cleared out, and a day of rest was better for the injured than charging off into a snowstorm. Plus, it gave Samven and the magister prisoner some time alone in one of the other buildings (Holzer cast several noise-dampening spells over it that did not dampen everything). Some very fruitful time, if his expression over dinner was any indication.

The elves were still giving the mages a wide berth (the sole exception was Valenna—race in this case seemed to take precedence). Cyv hadn't woken yet, which wasn't a great sign. They'd had to lock her mabari pup up with its mother, the only thing that could control its destructive rages of grief and confusion. Holzer was becoming more clinical in her description of her condition—also not a great sign. Scarlet's leg hurt a lot more than a cut of that size had any right to hurt. Nicolas Sant Biçente kept casting her weird looks, until Carver loudly asked him if he had a problem (never mind that Carver hesitated before he touched her too, now that the joy of battle had worn off and all that was left was the very fresh memory of the horrors committed by mages).

Scarlet forced herself to eat despite her lingering nausea, then cleaned up and sat with Cyv through the day, eventually fell asleep leaning against the wall, and woke up with a cloak tucked around her shoulders and no clear idea of where she was for a minute. The first thing she noticed was that she was totally drained from the exertions of the day before. Then she realized the sound of the snowstorm had faded, which meant they'd probably be moving soon. She rubbed her stiff neck and groaned, looked down at Cyv. No real change, except that someone had put her lucky dagger in her hand and placed both on her chest. “Well shit,” she said, her mouth as gummy as her eyes. She tucked some hair behind Cyv's ear, then just sat for a minute before gathering up her cloak to go.

Cyv opened her eyes, let loose a blood-curling scream and slashed at her with the dagger in her hand. Scarlet only barely threw herself backwards, and not fast enough—the dagger caught her in the stomach, but only a scratch. Probably. Cyv slashed again, quick as lightning, and this time Scarlet couldn't get out of the way. She tossed up a barrier, but was too late; the blade caught her throat and _ripped_ , and she slapped a hand against her throat reflexively as Samven ran into the room and shoved her away, getting between them to try and snatch the dagger, talking rapidly in a mixture of elvish and the trade tongue.

Scarlet stumbled towards the door, but either she was still tired and stiff or something was wrong, because she collapsed. Someone was pulling her out of the door. She let them. Her throat was on fire and her vision was swimming. She seemed to recall that Cyv poisoned her weapons. Was that...was she making that up? Why did she hurt so much? The person holding her was running, pressing their larger hand over the hand that was on her throat, and the pressure was too much, she tried to tell them she couldn't breathe, but couldn't get the words out. Probably poison then. Or, she thought as her fingers pressed into the gash on her throat quite a lot deeper than she had expected, maybe she just hadn't got back far enough. Or both. _Maker's tits._

“In here,” she heard someone—Holzer—say.

She started to say something, but nothing came out. Carver set her on the only table they'd found that was mostly intact, and clamped both hands around her neck.

“Keep pressure on,” Holzer said. “Marrak, have you ever displayed an allergy to blood lotus? Blink twice if yes.” She blinked once. “This will hurt.” Holzer nodded at Carver, his hands lifted, and then there was a flash of green light and so much pain she must have slipped unconscious, because the next thing she knew she was waking up and trying to scream, but nothing was happening. She stopped trying to scream, opened her eyes; what must have been quite a wound in her stomach was closing up (at once fascinating and horrifying), and her throat was still in agony, but at least she could breathe. Someone was sitting next to her, holding her hand.

“Does it...hurt always?” she croaked when the pain had subsided enough that she felt like she might have a chance at talking.

“Yes,” Carver said, beside her, his grip on her hand so hard she thought about telling him to ease off (she changed her mind). “You alright?” She nodded, instantly regretted it.

“Pain depends on the severity of the injury and the method of recovery,” Holzer said. “Have you never had much study on this?”

“No. Was...” She found that she didn't care to talk around the pain long enough to finish her sentence, and simply said _“Fuck.”_

“Fuck indeed,” Ayla said, behind Holzer. “What happened?”

“She should not be speaking much, Warden-Lieutenant,” Holzer said, and Ayla nodded.

“Of course. Apologies. Glad you're alright, Marrak. Wouldn't want to lose both of you. Got to get moving, now the storm's let up” she said, “get your gear, we head out in ten minutes.” She turned and left. Scarlet sat up, with Carver's help, got woozy, choked back the urge to throw up (if talking hurt, throwing up was _definitely_ going to hurt, she told herself firmly). She swung her legs around to get down from the table, but Carver stopped her.

“I'll get it. Sit.” He darted off and Scarlet sat, her head in her hands.

“Cyv,” she managed after a minute.

“Tillahanen is unconscious again. She became lucid for a minute and asked about you,” Holzer offered. “You'll be alright, but you shouldn't eat anything for a day or two nor talk much lest it aggravate the new scar tissue. You lost a great deal of blood. We gave you an infusion from Warden Hacklebolt, who was the best match, so please be aware and do not cast near him if at all possible over the next lunar cycle. Take a swallow of this in a few hours,” she said, handing her a small vial. “It tastes like...it tastes very bad, but it will help sweat the last of the poison out of your system. You'll want a bath tomorrow.”

“How unfortunate that we will be on the road for weeks,” Valenna said, from where she was stuffing potions in a satchel.

Carver had her gear; he awkwardly asked if she was alright, peering at her like she was going to keel over dead (or morph into an abomination) at any minute and couldn't be trusted no matter how many times she nodded. Her blood was still on his sleeves, but he still hesitated before he took her hand, and she took her pack and slung it over her back and used the opportunity to cast a sharp glance at Nicolas Sant Biçente, who avoided her gaze and darted out after the others.

“Thanks for...” she wheezed at Hacks when she caught up with him several hours later, gesturing at her neck.

“Blood?” She nodded. “Sure. I had extra.” He slung an arm around her, which she thought was less for her benefit and more for the benefit of anyone who may or may not have still been giving her a weird look. Moving her head hurt, but she leaned it on his shoulder anyway, and he gave her a little squeeze. “Don't make a habit of needing it.”

\--- 

The journey back to Montsimmard was quicker and lighter, even with an invalid who had to be carried by litter, a number of limping Wardens, and a prisoner who had to be watched around the clock. He spent most of that time moaning about his hands (and the other things he seemed to have misplaced somehow, which Samven would neither confirm nor deny). And anyway, none of the mages ever came up on guard duty, which was neither mysteriously nor subtly done. After a brief discussion that was mostly glancing at each other over dinner, they decided not to complain about it.

Cyv woke up for good two days into the journey. Before that she'd been swimming in and out of consciousness. She was lucid and hungry, Holzer was ecstatic about her progress, and so were the Wardens in general. It was another two days before she was on her feet, and another day before she sought Scarlet out. Scarlet was able to talk again, but had been keeping her distance, figuring Cyv would come say something when she was ready. Cyv found her while she was having a very difficult conversation with Steiner.

“You're lucky this didn't take your arm with it,” he said, passing his hands over her ruined staff. “What did you do _?”_ She didn't reply to that, which was a reply in itself. He cleared his throat. “You really want to repair this? It'll cost almost as much as a new one.”

“I _just_ finished the new grip,” she said. “Haven't even paid Holzer back for it. I couldn't afford a new one even if...” She trailed off, because Cyv was approaching with her mabari pup in tow, its hackles raised and teeth bared. It was still small for a mabari, which is to say it was about the size of a normal dog rather than a fully-grown dwarf, and its jaws were alarming.

“Hey Scarlet,” Cyv said, putting a hand on the puppy's shoulders. “Got a minute?”

“Is your dog going to eat me?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Probably not.”

The mabari tilted its head as if considering.

“That's reassuring.”

Scarlet left her staff with Steiner (“I'll see what I can do, but I'm not equipped for this kind of major repair on the road—you even disrupted the core, look at this, it's unbelievable, why do we let you have nice things?”) and they found a space away from the rest of the pitiful excuse for a camp. Cyv petted her mabari, speaking mostly to its head, while Scarlet fiddled with a loose thread on her glove.

“Are you alright?” Cyv asked.

“Fine. Just a scratch.”

“A scratch?” Cyv snorted. “If I weren't here to apologize for opening your throat, I'd be offended.”

Scarlet smiled.

“You know you smell like magic?” Cyv asked, as if that was a part of normal conversation. “All the time, but especially when you've been casting. All mages do.”

“...Um?” Nobody had ever mentioned that before. “Is this an...elf thing?”

“No, it's a me thing. Other elves think I'm just as crazy as you do right now, but I can smell mages. Especially with humans.” She sniffed, as if to demonstrate. “I've only ever met a couple of other people who can do it. Mostly dwarves, weirdly.”

“Please never tell the Templars this.” (Cyv snorted again.) “Can you smell...different types of spells?”

“What, like fire and snow? No, it just all smells like magic. Well, human mages and elf mages smell differently. Never met a Qunari mage, but I assume they do too. Humans, though—it drowns out everything else with you people.”

“...So I smell like a magister to you,” Scarlet said as understanding crashed over her, and Cyv seemed very interested in scratching her mabari's ears as she nodded. Scarlet yanked at the thread and it came out faster than she'd intended, destroying the seam.

“That's why I never...it's not because I didn't fancy you, you know.”

“I had sort of...” Scarlet cleared her throat, flailed wildly for something to say. “Maker's butthole,” she finally said, and Cyv snorted with something like laughter. Scarlet rubbed her temples. “So what does human magic smell like, exactly?”

“Like...magic. I can't explain it exactly. It's sharp, though, and it gets everywhere. You know how you can always smell an onion no matter what else is in the room?”

“I smell like _onions_?”

“No! You smell like magic! Don't be difficult.” Cyv elbowed her perhaps more sharply than she had meant to; when Scarlet winced, she did too. “Sorry. I just--when I woke up I was...confused and frightened, I couldn't see much more than a blur, and I jumped to some...conclusions, and...I'm sorry.”

Scarlet grinned tentatively. “I never blame you for your behavior before you've had coffee.”

“They still won't let me have any, you know,” Cyv said. “Supposedly it's not good for my traumatic brain injury. I think that's bullshit, what do you think?”

“I'd do anything for you, but not argue with Holzer.”

“Weak.”

“I know when I'm bested.”

“You allowed to eat yet?”

“Nominally.”

“Let's see what's happening for dinner.”

“Bet you it's cold trail rations,” Scarlet said, falling into step beside her.

“Sucker's bet.”

The mabari growled and inserted itself between them, but when Cyv said “She's alright, Mabarki,” it allowed Scarlet to approach, and even to pat its head (once).

“You named your dog Mabarki?”

“You know the Hero of Ferelden named hers Barkspawn.”

“I was not aware of that, no.”

“Puns and Grey Wardens go together like flies and the undead,” Cyv said wisely, and Scarlet laughed (it hurt her throat, but she did it anyway).


	8. Chapter 8

They were three days back at Montsimmard when Scarlet was called into the Warden-Commander's office. She was in the library with Holzer, neither speaking much, because Cyv was using her liberty to drink everything in sight and sleep with any willing female elf in a 50 mile radius, Hacks was tied up with the other leadership, Steiner was cooped up trying to salvage her staff, and Carver had been mysteriously absent a lot of the time. Holzer, on the other hand, had a prodigious number of research projects going, and she let Scarlet help with one, examining ways to make magical healing less painful.

(“You know my entire neck is numb,” she said to Holzer. “Is that normal? I can't feel anything except on the very back.”

“Nerve damage is a side effect of spell healing. Not always, it can be mitigated with proper study, but sometimes. Have you ever noticed that most front-line fighters will eschew spells for all but the worst injuries? Potions are much safer, but don't always work quickly enough, and of course you must have one to hand. I am sorry,” she added, uncharacteristically flustered. “You were very close to death, and I forgot some of what I know of anatomy. It was sloppy work—I panicked--”

“Maker's _tits_ , Holzer, you saved my life, please don't think I'm anything but grateful,” Scarlet interrupted, and Holzer acknowledged that, but in the way she acknowledged something that she was not convinced of, and Scarlet never forgave herself for bringing it up.)

Fresh off her first real experience with the incredible shock of the body being wrenched back together all at once, Scarlet dove into this with more interest than anything since her first taste of storm magic. It helped her avoid the way Nicolas Sant Biçente stared at her any time they were in the same space. He'd been following her, and not deftly—apparently his much-lauded scouting skills did not extend to the indoors--and flinched any time she laughed too loudly or cast a spell, no matter how minor.

(“What exactly is your problem, kid?” she said, finally cornering him in an empty hallway that morning.

“Nothing,” he said, clearly nervous, his eyes darting around for an escape route, and she felt bad about scaring him, but that only extended so fucking far. “I don't have a problem.”

“Well you keep following me around and we're going to have a _big_ fucking problem.” She summoned a _tiny_ bit of wind into the hall, just enough to make the wall sconces flicker and his bangs stir before she dismissed it and stalked away, and while she admitted later that it was childish of her it was also deeply satisfying.)

The Warden-Commander was in her office, sitting at her desk, and so was Clarel, sitting next to her; when Scarlet entered, feeling quite edgy indeed (if he decided to complain she wasn't sure how much trouble she may or may not be in), Fontaine gestured for her to have a seat and said, without preamble, “I want to commend you on your work in Tevinter. I've heard good things.”

“Oh,” Scarlet said, relieved. “Thank you, ser. It was a group effort, I assure you.”

“Indeed.” There was a pause, during which the two senior Wardens exchanged glances, and Scarlet began hastily preparing any number of defensive strategies, up to and including simply running away forever. Suddenly the Warden-Commander stood, as did Clarel. After a second's confused scrambling, so did Scarlet. “I'll leave you to it,” Fontaine said to Clarel, who nodded. She left, and after another minute of strained silence Clarel spoke.

“Have you had your staff repaired?”

“Warden Steiner's working on it.” At a hefty discount that was still going to wipe out her pay for the next three months. “I picked up a loaner from the armory in the meantime.”

“Ah.” Clarel nodded shortly; the less said about the armory staffs, the better. “I'd like to hear more about Tevinter some time, but first—well, come sit,” she said, gesturing at the other side of the office, where there was a small table and a handful of chairs. Scarlet followed her, bewildered, and sat down across from her, trying not to peer too closely at the older woman. Clarel was even more closed off than usual, her brows furrowed, her hand closed around something, and Scarlet tried not to fidget nervously.

“You don't wear a Ring of Study,” Clarel said.

“I gave it to my sister after our Joining. It was a...well, it seemed fitting.”

“Did she have it when she died?”

“She wore it most days, but I—don't remember.”

“A Ring of Study was found in the magister's study in Tevinter.”

This was not a thing she had anticipated, and Scarlet's mind went totally blank. “Oh,” she said. Then horror swept over her. “Oh Maker, no.”

Clarel reached across the table and handed her an unassuming silver ring. It hummed in her hand in a way that was so familiar she had the sudden, crazy urge to laugh. She turned it over to look inside, already knowing what she was going to find. “This was mine,” she said, pointing mechanically at the small engraving of her name inside the band. “Please no,” she whispered, looking down at it, clutching it between her fingers, not sure who she was talking to, and then she began to weep so hard she thought the scar on her throat was going to burst.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Clarel had crossed the space and was crouched next to her chair, holding her shoulder as she cried.

“Did you see her body?” she asked quietly. Scarlet shook her head. “The magisters' papers indicate they have other strongholds, part of the same operation. Unfortunately the survivor could not tell us much about their locations, it will be something of a hunt to find them all.” Her tone had changed; Scarlet looked up. Her face was steely, but her eyes were impossibly sad. “The Warden-Commander and I thought you would want to be involved.”

\---

She retreated to her room for after that, locked the door, sealed the lock, curled up in the middle of the bed staring at the wall. She put her ring on, back on the same finger where she'd always worn it, and it felt at once totally alien and terrifyingly familiar. She twisted it around her finger, stared at the unusual way the candlelight reflected off the lyrium-infused silver, the patterns looking like flowers and clouds and and rivers of blood. Someone knocked on the door a couple of times; she ignored it and eventually they went away. They came back once, or someone else tried, she didn't know or care. She tried to read, failed. She paced until her leg twitched. She cried some more. She dozed a little, had terrible dreams, woke sweating with the sheets singed where she'd clutched them.

She would gladly have stayed in her room until she died of starvation, heard her Calling, or started to feel better, whichever came first, but as the evening wore on and the candles burned out it began to feel like a tomb, so she made herself change clothes, wash her face, go to dinner, start to think about going on with her life. She'd done this before. She knew how to go through the motions of feeling better. But when she finally ambled into the mess hall, she couldn't help but notice that amongst all the other Wardens gathered, Carver was deep in quiet discussion with Nicolas Sant Biçente, that tattle-tale son of a _bitch,_ and the two of them stopped talking and exchanged looks when she walked in.

Without thinking, she turned and walked out, went back to her room, took a pillow and a blanket and went to the small roof she and Carver had shared a thousand years ago.

(On the way she stopped several times to stretch her leg against the wall and banged her fist on the spot on her thigh, which did not help the stiffness but was satisfying nonetheless. She was finding more and more that hitting things with her hands was a satisfactory way to relieve stress without the mess and questions that came from, for instance, setting them on fire. If Murray ever came back from his tear through the willing women of the city, she was going to ask him to teach her to box.)

Once there, she wrapped herself in blankets and sat looking up at the sky, shivering despite the relative warmth of the night. She couldn't decide what to do with her hands, so she pulled feathers out of the pillow and watched them blow away in the breeze. She wanted a tonic to mix, or a trashy book to read, or she wanted someone to sit in the courtyard and sing something where she could hear it. She wanted to throw herself off the roof and see if being unconscious would stop her thoughts. She didn't want to move. She felt like every part of her weighed a thousand pounds. The roof had another ledge next to it, slightly higher; she curled up against it, slowly pulled the pillow to pieces, and counted stars.

The window through which she'd come opened suddenly around number 582, and she lost count. She didn't turn, didn't move. Let them think she was just a lump of darkness. After a minute it shut again, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Scarlet?”

_Andraste's flaming twathairs._

She looked around. “Oh, hi.”

Carver was perched on the windowsill, the window shut behind him. “I've been looking for you all day.”

“I wasn't hiding,” she said, as if she wasn't sitting on the roof in the dark with a blanket over her head like a hood. He edged over and sat next to her, not quite close enough to touch.

“I need to talk to you.”

“No time like the present.”

“Nicolas Sant Biçente said--”

“Of course that's what this is about,” she muttered.

“I just want to know.”

“Know what, exactly?” she asked, turning around and looking him dead in the face. He didn't flinch.

“Did you use blood magic in Tevinter?”

“Yes.” The word tumbled out before her instincts could repress it, and it felt marvelous—freeing, empowering, perfect. Fuck yes she had. “And I would do it again.” (somewhere in the back of her mind she thought of the way the Pride demon had laughed, and she pushed that thought away as far as it would go). It was dark enough she couldn't see his face very well, but she heard what sounded like a sharp intake of breath. “Now ask me why.”

He waited a minute before he did. “Alright, why?”

“You saw what happened to Cyv. I already lost my family once. I would drain every last drop of blood I have if I thought it would save the one I have now--”

“And what are we supposed to do if you kill yourself? _”_ he interrupted. “Or worse? We're already killing ourselves to save the world, don't speed things up.”

“If you could have sacrificed yourself to save Bethany would you have done it?”

“In a heartbeat. We're talking about you, not me.”

“It's no different.”

“It _is.”_

_“Why?”_

He didn't reply—he took her face in his hands and kissed her so tenderly she shivered, and then he leaned his forehead against hers. “Maker, just be careful.”

“You first,” she thought about saying, or “I'm an adult,” or “Is that _it_?” but she was tired and heart-sick and so she just closed her eyes and let it go, enjoyed the way it felt to be held, and thought fixedly of nothing.

“Well anyway,” he said after a minute, “I got you a present.”

“I don't suppose it's food.”

“Well I did bring you a couple of rolls, since you ran off without dinner, but that's not what I was talking about.”

Scarlet smiled a bit despite herself. “Alright, let's see it.”

Carver let go, reached into his pocket and handed her a small square of fabric. She fought her way free of the blankets and unwrapped the little package to find a small, perfectly symmetrical tetragonal crystal, hanging on a thin steel chain.

 _“Oh,”_ she said. It was dark, so she sparked a small clear light and held the crystal up to it to watch the colors dance. It wasn't clear, but actually pale, transparent green, and seemed to glow from within. She peered closer and couldn't immediately detect any flaws.

“You like it? I found it in the village back in Tevinter.”

“You _found_ this?”

“I don't think someone meant to lose it, the chain was broken. Had the smith put it on something stronger. Steiner looked it over and said there's some beneficial magic he can't identify.” She looked over at him and he was beaming hopefully. “Can I...” He gestured, and she came to understand he wanted to put it on her, so she handed it back and turned around. He moved closer, swept her hair (it was a disaster) out of the way, and once he had fastened the chain, he dropped a tentative kiss onto the back of her neck. “Do you like it?”

It hung neatly a little below the Warden's Oath, where it would be out of the way of the straps that held her staff in place on her back, and it was a little warmer than body temperature, though not unpleasant. “I do like it. Thank you.” She picked it up again, looking up at the stars. If you said the right words and looked at Bellitanus through a crystal, you could immediately detect all its flaws. “I can't believe you just found this, it's literally flawless.”

His hands had settled on her waist. She wasn't sure if she wanted them to stay there or not. “I'm glad you like it,” he said, and moved his head to kiss the side of her neck this time, near the beginning of the scar.

“You know, I can't really feel that,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“Holzer said it's nerve damage. I didn't...ever realize that healing spells could make you lose sensation.”

“They don't always,” he said.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought you knew.”

“I didn't bother to learn much about healing spells. Did I ever...”

He cleared his throat. “My ribs, just before we left.”

“You should have said something.”

“It made you happy.”

She was surprised by the suddenness of her arousal, and the force of it. “Carver,” she said. He made a noise of acknowledgment, but his lips were pressed against the back of her neck, where she could feel it. She shook the blanket off entirely, stood up, pulled him with her.

“—have you been crying?” he asked when they got inside and the light from the hall sconces made it easier to see.

“No,” she said immediately, then rolled her eyes at herself. “Yes. It's fine, don't worry about it.”

“What happened?”

“My leg hurts and I'm being a baby,” she said, which was at least partially true, and then she kissed him to shut him up and he seemed ready to accept that.  
“I want to wrestle,” she said when they got back to her room (it was closer). She had to tear herself away from his kisses to say it, and he looked a little confused.

“I thought your leg hurt?”

“So? Just be careful. I want to wrestle” she said, unbuckling his belt and kicking off her boots at the same time.

“I also thought you wanted to have sex.”

“Yes. Both,” she said. She slipped his shirt off and tossed it aside. “But you have to catch me first, Templar scum.”

In the end, exhausted and sore and a little worse for wear, they curled up together on the corner of the bed and lay there for a long time. Carver dozed. Scarlet couldn't have slept even if she wanted to, so she ruminated on the new and pleasant aches in her various parts, made her fingers cool and warm by turns and watched the hairs stand up on his arms when she drew patterns on his skin, counted his freckles, counted her freckles, counted his eyelashes, counted teeth marks on his shoulder, anything.

“Talk to me,” she finally said.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Why the Templar thing?” he asked sleepily. She shrugged.

“It's more common than you'd think. Lure of the forbidden, fear of the self. Mix of the two, who knows. You never had a thing for mages?”

“The mages I knew were my father and sisters.”

“Fair point.”

He seemed to doze off again, but Scarlet shifted and nudged him and he woke with a startled noise.

“The first girl I ever kissed was a Templar. At Kinloch Hold.”

“Oh.” That he seemed interested in. “What happened?”

“We got caught. She got tossed out of the Order, I think, I got transferred to Kirkwall. Never could track her down again. She was sweet,” she said, a little wistful as she thought of Amelia, “but we were just kids, we had no idea what we were doing.”

“I'm named after a Templar.”

"...your family is...unusual."

“You have no idea."

“Apparently.” She closed her eyes, seriously considered whether she wanted to ask this question. “Does it ever bother you that I'm a mage?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“A bit.” He waited for a minute as if trying to gauge her reaction in the dark. Scarlet kept her eyes shut.

“Because of the demon thing?”

“Not just that. Does it bother you that I'm not?”

“No.”

“Well then.” He was quiet again for a bit. “I don't think 'bothers' is the right word. 'Worries,' maybe. Aside from the demon thing, you're so...you're like a trebuchet that's made of glass. One little hit and it all falls apart.”

“Cyv would be very upset to hear you call her work 'one little hit'.”

“Please don't tell her, I'd like my bits to remain attached.”

“No promises. Anyway, you're more likely to die before I do.”

“Hey now, I don't think that's true.” He actually sat halfway up, he was so offended.

“Oh please, you're the one always charging into battle. It's statistically safer to remain behind, not to mention significantly more effective. Holzer did a study.”

“That storm was pretty impressive,” he said, only a little begrudgingly.

“For a demon-addled glass trebuchet.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You'll never stop me worrying about you,” he said suddenly. “That's my job. I'm meant to stand in front of our enemies and make them hit me so they don't hit you.” He leaned over, waited until she opened her eyes, and looked at her very intently. “I let you fix my ribs. Let me do this.”

She opened her mouth, thinking to say any number of things. Nothing came out. Her thigh wound throbbed. “Like I could stop you,” she finally said. That seemed to suffice. He nodded, lay down, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

“Now for Maker's sake, woman, let me sleep.” Carver kissed her head and fell silent, and Scarlet thought about the way his hands fit against her back until she fell asleep. 

\---

She dreamed of Rose.

She dreamed of the tons of rock she hadn't been able to hold up long enough for Rose to escape. But in her dream she slashed her palm (idiotic, you could easily cut too deep and slice a tendon, better the outer leg or the upper arm) with a dagger made of bone, blood splattered her face, and the rocks didn't fall, and Rose ran to her, and they held each other as the cave collapsed on the darkspawn following, and then Rose whispered “Why her and not me?” and Scarlet woke up.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sleepy morning sex was undoubtedly the best way to begin the day. The problem, Scarlet reflected as Carver kissed her sweaty forehead and curled up next to her, was that it made getting out of bed even less attractive an activity than it always was. He said something she didn't quite catch—she said “hmm?” and tried to listen this time.

“You hungry?” She was, but she was also sleepy, comfortable, and sated, so she merely smiled and continued laying there with her eyes closed, sleepy and comfortable and sated and totally uninterested in moving, until she drifted off again. When she woke up she was tucked back under the blankets and he was sitting next to her, fully dressed, stroking her back, and she smelled coffee. “Morning,” he said, sounding amused.

“You keep bringing me breakfast, people will talk,” she said, struggling out from under the blankets to accept the mug he pressed into her hands.

“Right,” he said with a grin, “why would I want anyone to think you're too exhausted to get out of bed.” She rolled her eyes, but mostly on principle.

“Show off.”

He shrugged, and in what had become a morning ritual in the three weeks they'd been on liberty, she sidled up next to him and he slipped his arm around her as they sipped their coffee. “I'm heading to the practice ring.”

“Once I convince myself to get up I'll be in the library.”

“No you won't, it's training day.”

“Ugh. After lunch.”

“Fine, after lunch. But no more putting it off.”

“ _Ugh._ Fine. Do you want to go out for dinner? I got a new dress yesterday.” And some new underthings (that actually _matched,_ with all their original buttons and not a single patch, rip, or tear), but those could be a surprise.

“Maker yes, I'm so tired of the mess hall.”

“And you want to see my new dress.”

“Of course I do,” he said immediately, but his heart wasn't in it.

“It's very pretty.”

“I'm sure it is.”

“Oh, go run around and hit people,” she said with a sigh, and he grinned again, kissed her on the forehead, and hopped off the bed.

“See you for lunch.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” she said, and when he turned around, smiling and relaxed but with one hand on the door, she just looked at him for a minute.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” he finally asked. Halfway out the door, but still there. Still hers. She nodded.

“Just...glad you're here.”

“Me too.”

“Don't accidentally kiss anyone.”

He grinned. “I'll do my best,” he said, and ducked out the door, leaving Scarlet to sit and stare after him, and wonder if she ought to think about putting a name to whatever she was feeling, and forget about her coffee until long after it had gone cold.

“I think that you are over-simplifying,” Holzer said several hours later.

“Well maybe so, but I still think I'm on to something,” Scarlet said, kicking her legs over the arm of the overstuffed armchair she had not moved from since she'd dragged herself into the library. Holzer was sitting at a table nearby, behind a stack of books so high they almost obscured her face. She made the same non-committal noise of acknowledgment she made whenever Scarlet said something she did not think was worth the time to refute. They'd spent at least a little time together nearly every day, delving into weirder and more esoteric layers of magical theory, and she made that noise more and more often. Scarlet grinned. “You know, you're never more diplomatic than when you think I'm full of shit.”

“Surely that's an exaggeration,” Holzer said, but she did not deny that she did, in fact, think Scarlet was full of shit. “I just think that...” she spoke her next words carefully, “we must acknowledge the possibility that there might not be a solution.”

“Which is a polite way of saying you think I'm full of shit.”

“Perhaps not in those words,” Holzer said, and Scarlet laughed.

“That's not a 'no,' Holtzy.”

 _“Please_ not that one.”

“J-Holz?”

Holzer pursed her lips and changed the subject. “Lunch will be on by now, shall we?”

“I don't know, I'm really comfortable. You couldn't be convinced to bring me something back?”

“That is unlikely.”

“Uuuughh, I'm on liberty,” Scarlet whined, making Holzer smile broadly—the closest she usually came to laughter.

“We're all on liberty.”

“So why don't we have someone to bring us lunch?”

“An excellent question, and one we should research when we return.”

Scarlet got to her feet and stretched until her spine finally obliged her with a good solid crack. “You would have been an excellent tutor.”

“Thank you,” Holzer said, with the most pleased expression Scarlet had ever seen her wear. “That's so kind of you to say. I had hoped very much to be so, until I was recruited.”

They stopped by the mail room on the way—Scarlet wasn't expecting anything, but Holzer was waiting for a package of rare and expensive herbs from the Hissing Wastes and anxious about it. “Anything?” she asked Clark, the bored greybeard who manned the little mail alcove and had been waiting for his Calling for at least a thousand years.

“Not yet,” he said, “but I've got something for you, Marrak,” and he handed her a letter with the Kirkwall Templar stamp. She grimaced. They were reading Circle mail again--well, at least they were letting them send it. Some of it. It was from Grace, and it was short and to the point. _Hi Scarlet. Can't write much, almost out of paper and ink and they won't give us more. I think you just need to work harder on your study of anatomy if you want to avoid causing nerve damage. Cheers, Grace. PS, They're reading our mail again, did you notice? Sorry, Knight-Recruit, nothing salacious this time._

“Thanks, Clark.”

“Also got one for your manfriend, he hasn't been by in a few days. Take it to him for me.”

“Andraste forbid you do your own job,” Scarlet said, but she took the letter anyway.

“I'm glad to see you still correspond with Circle friends,” Holzer said.

“Only a couple. Kirkwall was a hard place to make friends. You?”

“Many, but with the preparations for the First Enchanters' visit they have been busy.”

“Some day when we have the time I want to visit Cumberland with you,” Scarlet said as they ducked into the mess hall. “I never did get to go.”

Holzer lit up like a candle. “I would love to show you! It is so beautiful, I know you'd love it. And there is so much history there. The library is truly remarkable. Marguerithe and Cecile would love you--oh, we would have so much fun, there is a restaurant nearby that serves high tea with the most perfect little cakes, and the girls at the brothel will do our hair if they aren't too busy.”

“You visited brothels in Cumberland?”

“Of course. The workers need healing just as much as anyone else.” They had reached the table that had become their standard one over the past weeks. Carver was already there, still kitted out for sparring, shoveling food into his mouth like he was actively starving to death. He paused only briefly to allow Scarlet to drop a kiss on his cheek and his letter in his hand (“Ugh, it's from Gamlen”) before the two women headed to get their lunch. “Cecile was my roommate for years before our Harrowings, she specializes in weather spells and she was very interested when I wrote her about our storm in Tevinter. She asked if you would be willing to correspond with her directly? I completely forgot to ask.”

“I could always use a new pen-pal. Are you writing to her soon? Can I send a letter with yours?”

“Of course, I will finish a letter to her tonight. I just need to copy out some of the text in the tome she requested, the library here has some very odd things. Mostly darkspawn and blight related, of course, but I don't believe some of these books exist anywhere else. Sooner or later we'll have to do a full inventory, you know. The Chamberlain says it's overdue.”

“We did that at Kinloch Hold,” Scarlet said as they took their food. Nothing exciting, but at least it wasn't trail rations. “It was loads of fun, but only for the first week. Once we got into copying out the old scrolls in the back...you know, it's amazing how many people kept supply manifests in the Steel Age, as if there was nothing else going on of interest. 'Consumed: four barrels salted pork.' Well that's great, but did you _happen_ to notice the Qunari Wars? Nothing to say about them?” They dropped their plates back at the table, sat down.

“Meticulous record keeping is useful for drawing patterns about daily life,” Holzer said, though she didn't seem convinced.

“So I hear. Doesn't make it less boring...sweetheart, what's wrong?”

Carver had frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth, and he was white as a sheet as he stared at the letter in his other hand. Scarlet touched his arm and he jerked it away, dropping his fork with a clatter. He sat shaking for a minute before he answered. “My mother's been murdered.”

“Sacred Ashes.” Scarlet pressed a hand to her mouth; across the table, Holzer gasped. “Oh Carver, I'm so sorry...when? What happened?”

“See for yourself.” He stood up so fast he nearly upset the bench, threw the letter on the table, and stalked off. Scarlet caught it, scanned the contents—it was from the Kirkwall City Guard, formal condolences, only a few lines at the bottom more personalized, apparently from his uncle—she sucked in a breath. An escaped blood mage, a necromancer, murdering women to steal pieces of them, animated corpses and shambling demons and an underground cave of horrors, it was like a lurid story told to frighten children at a midwinter bonfire.

She had to run; Carver's legs were longer and he had a head start. She caught up with him in the hallway leading towards the Warden-Commander's office. “Carver,” she called, and he stopped walking, but when she reached for him he took two very sudden steps back.

_“Don't touch me.”_

The vehemence in his voice was staggering. She held up her hands.

“Are you...” Nothing she could think to say seemed adequate. “I'm so sorry. Maker's breath. Can I--do you need--”

“What I need is for magic to be kept under control so things like this don't keep happening.”

“Oh,” she said, trying for an understanding, noncommittal noise of sympathy but succeeding only in sounding like a self-pitying asshole. Carver turned and continued down the hallway.

“Leave me alone.”

She couldn't get him alone for the next couple of days, and when she tried to talk to him he told her again to leave him alone, so she did. She got word that Murray and Sant Biçente were dragging him out for the Grey Warden version of a wake, one of the forced nights of public intoxication in which the guest of honor was expected to ingest anything handed to them until they started a fight, started a fire, and/or blacked out. After a lot of consideration she hung back. Maybe that was a mistake. He'd been pretty clear about not wanting her company, and pretty specific as to why, but maybe she should have tried anyway. She didn't know. Finally she found out from Hacks that he was shipping out with a patrol the next day, having requested an early end to his leave, and so she stopped by the sparring ring, where he was spending most of his time, and waited 'till he was alone to approach, the crystal in her hand. He wasn't really paying attention to her, or anything else, he was cleaning his sword. His eyes were red, he hadn't shaved in days, he looked awful.

“I hear you're shipping out tomorrow.” He nodded. “Where are you headed?” she asked, voice level (she had practiced).

“No idea.”

“Were you going to say goodbye?” she thought about saying, but she remembered what a raging headcase she'd been in the weeks after Rose's death, and instead she said, “If you need anything, I'm--”

"You weren't at the wake."  
  
"I didn't think..." She meant to say "I didn't think you wanted me there," but she trailed off and there was a moment of strained silence instead.

“I think it's probably best if we just cut this off.”

“--What?” she said, bewildered.

“You heard me.”

“Oh,” she said. A non-committal sound of acknowledgment. “I did. I—alright, if that's what you want?”

“I want a lot of things,” he said, “namely my whole life to not have been ruined by magic.”

“I think you're probably not the only one,” she thought about saying, and held out the crystal. “Do you want this back, then?”

“No.” Not really sure whether that meant she should keep it or not, she slipped it awkwardly into her pocket.

“Well, um,” she began, and he got up and left before she could get anything out, and she stood there blinking in the sunlight like an owl at noon.


	10. Chapter 10

_9:19 Dragon_

Mama always says that they're both pretty, but when Rose is around nobody looks at Scarlet. Rose is so pretty that strangers stop and exclaim over her, and boys their age sometimes trip over their own feet. Scarlet doesn't mind, not really, but Rose does. She _hates_ when people coo over her or try to touch her hair. She's too shy to say anything to them, but she cries about it after, so Scarlet has taken it upon herself to step in. “Leave her alone,” she says to the woman Nana's age who is reaching for Rose.

“Scarlet, don't be rude,” Mama says. She's not really listening, she's arguing with a shopkeeper about more stuff for Lily's wedding to Kit in two weeks (how much more can there possibly be? They already have the most important things—Scarlet and Rose's matching pink silk dresses with the white lace that was a gift from Kit's mother—and Lily's dress is coming from Denerim, so what are they still _doing_ here?). Rose is smiling like she does when she doesn't know how to stop someone touching her.

“Your daughter is so beautiful,” the woman says to Mama. “Look at those curls!”

“Oh, thank you,” Mama says absently. “Surely you can't be serious,” she says to the shopkeeper. The woman reaches out again and touches Rose's hair, and Rose grits her teeth, and Scarlet pushes her hand away.

“Don't touch her!” she yells, loud enough that the people around them look over. The woman draws her hand back with a face like she's sucking on a lemon.

“Scarlet!” Mama scolds, grabbing her arm and jerking her back. “What's wrong with you? Apologize.”

“She wouldn't leave Rose alone,” Scarlet says. Beside her, Rose nods emphatically.

“My my,” says the woman, pushing past them with a disapproving scowl.

“You _said_ people weren't allowed to touch us without our permission,” Rose says when she leaves. Mama frowns.

“I did. But we don't yell at our elders or hit them, we show them respect--”

“Even when they try to grab us?” Rose says, and Scarlet crosses her arms for emphasis. They're still little enough that Papa can pick both of them up and sling them over his shoulders with one arm, but he always laughs and says that they're unstoppable when they work together. Mama looks between them, then at the woman's retreating back with narrowed eyes.

“I'm sorry, my girls. I didn't realize. Of course, if someone tries to touch you without your permission, you tell them no, and if they don't stop, you make a fuss and tell an adult. You did right.” She puts her arms out and draws them towards her, kisses the top of Scarlet's head. “Would you like to go to the tavern for lunch? It's too hot to cook today.”

Lunch at the tavern is a treat, and it cheers them up—especially Rose, who is _always_ hungry. A lot of friends want to talk to Mama about the wedding, so after they eat, she tells them they can walk home together as long as they stay on the road. They have no intention of going home (if they go home Papa will make them do chores), but they head out of the tavern anyway, and as they leave Scarlet runs into a man so tall she can barely see his face, just his blue uniform and his silver armor, which hurts when she smacks her forehead into it. “Be careful there, little one,” he says mildly as he steps aside to make room for her, and she stares up at him until Rose takes her hand and yanks her out the door.

“Let's go to Corey's house,” she says.

“Ugh.” Corey's only redeeming quality is that he has his own horse that's just for riding, not a farm horse. For Rose that's enough, and she's dead set on it, so they go to Corey's house, and Scarlet doesn't sing “Gorey Corey Tell a Story” even once, even though Corey is _clearly_ lying about having met a Grey Warden, and Rose gets to ride the horse with Corey hanging on behind her, and Scarlet skips rocks on the lake behind their house. She's trying to break her own record of 45 skips in a row, since no one else can (occasionally someone's cousin or friend from out of town will try, but they've never come close), but it's not working, and she's bored and frustrated and when the stone sinks after just 30 pathetic skips she stomps her foot and yells the worst swear she can think of, which is “Maker's _breath.”_

The stone rises up out of the water and floats back into her hand.

Corey's mother doesn't believe him. She sends Scarlet and Rose home and drags him inside by his ear. “Telling stories like that is _not funny, Corey_ , you should be _ashamed--_ ”

Scarlet runs halfway home, then falls down, throws up, and starts to cry in the middle of the road, and Rose hovers behind her, totally lost. The stone is still in Scarlet's hand. She throws it away from her in terror. This time it just sits where it lands.

“Did you...” Rose swallows hard, staring at the stone, twisting the hem of her dress in her hands.

“I didn't do it,” Scarlet says. “It just happened. It wasn't me, it must have been--” She can't think of anything. “A bird.”

“A _bird?”_

Scarlet drags her arm across her eyes, sets her jaw. “No one will believe Corey. You and I know I didn't do it. Right?”

“Scarlet...” Rose says.

“I _didn't do it._ ”

The Templars come four days before Lily's wedding. Scarlet is in the barn by herself; all the animals are somewhere else, probably with other families. She's in the hayloft, wrapped in an old blanket, eating the sandwich Joff brought her. He's the only one who has come to talk to her, and he doesn't stay for long before he gets spooked. Princess Anora, the giant tabby tomcat who patrols for mice, is laying in her lap, partly because he is hoping for a piece of her chicken, partly because he has been possessive of the girls since they were born.

She has been in the barn for three days, since Papa told her to stay and he and Joff and Jon took all the animals away. She hasn't seen Rose at all.

Princess Anora leaps up and hisses, all the fur on his back standing up. There's footsteps and voices, the barn door opens. Scarlet crawls over to the edge of the hayloft to look.

She's never seen a Templar before, but they couldn't be anything else. The two men wear silver and red, and Scarlet, who loves red, thinks angrily that it's not _fair_. Mama is with them, but she stops by the west door, looking around like when she thinks there might be a coyote nearby.

“The child is here?” one of the Templars says. Mama nods, but doesn't say anything.

“In the barn,” says the other, not really asking a question, turning to look at her. Mama doesn't reply.

“Hello, Templars!” The east door bangs open, and Scarlet can't see what's going on because the hayloft is over the east door, but she hears Rose's voice clearly. “I am so glad you are here! When do we leave for the Circle?”

“Rose, what in Thedas...” Mama begins, then trails off as Rose comes up towards them, stepping into Scarlet's view. She's wearing Scarlet's favorite dress, the one with long, billowy red sleeves.

“Hello Mama, look what happened,” she says. “I can do magic too, look--” She throws her arm in the air and a little trail of sparkles follows, catching in the sunlight from the window. “It just happened this morning--”

 _“Rosaline Elisabeth Marrak,”_ Mama says sharply, grabbing for her arm, and Rose jerks away, puts her hands on her hips.

“I'm _magic_ ,” she insists, her voice cracking as she starts to cry. “You have to take me too.”

The second Templar looks up at the hayloft, and Scarlet isn't quick enough to move her head. He says something to his fellow, who in turn speaks to Mama, and with a wary glance around the barn (she avoids the hayloft) she follows him out, leaving Rose. The Templar in the barn produces a handkerchief for Rose, walks over and closes the barn door.

As soon as his back is turned, Rose is running to the hayloft ladder.

The Templar gives them a few minutes alone before he asks them to come down.

“No,” Rose yells. She has a wild look in her eyes, and from her pocket she produces one of the sharp kitchen knives. She hands it to Scarlet, who nearly drops it in terror and tries to give it back, but Rose has another one, bigger, and she's standing in front of Scarlet as the Templar comes up the ladder, and Princess Anora is standing in front of her. The cat gives a dangerous, low growl from the pit of his stomach when the Templar's head appears over the edge.

The Templar pauses, takes in the scene, and says gravely, “Since it appears I am outnumbered, may I request a formal parley?”

He folds himself into the hayloft with them, and though he is very kind Scarlet can't help but notice he keeps himself between them and the ladder. While he talks, the girls sit together, holding hands, and Princess Anora paces in circles around them. The Templar tells them his name is Ser Eirk, and he has two daughters, one about their age and one younger, and he wishes his girls were as close as they are. He tells them it's honorable and brave to want to protect our loved ones, and that is why Scarlet must go to the Circle, where she will be safe and cared for. Years later, Scarlet will look back with grudging appreciation for the man who respected them enough to talk seriously without resorting to fear-mongering; for now all she understands is that he is heavily armored, he is between them and the ladder, and it ultimately doesn't matter how kind he is.

“You can write to each other,” he says to them, later, when they're leaving and Scarlet is too petrified to let go of Rose's hand and Rose is crying again. “In fact, it's best if you do. Letters from home are important.” He tells Rose how to address a letter so it will arrive at the Circle, and gives her a few coins to pay for postage, and then he tells Joff how to address a letter as well, just in case Rose forgets. Only Rose and Joff are there. Lily is hovering by the door, crying, Mama is inside peeking through the window. There's no telling where Jon or Papa are.

Joff hugs her awkwardly, as if she smells bad (she might, she's been in the barn for three days), but he hugs her. Rose hugs her so tight her bones ache, and Scarlet goes all to pieces, weeping and clutching her, so terrified she can't even breathe. Finally Joff pulls Rose away, and Ser Eirk scoops Scarlet up and puts her on the horse in front of him. Scarlet turns to look around the Templar's arm—Joff turns away, scrubbing his eyes, Rose is running after them, and Mama comes tearing out of the house, yanks Rose up into her arms and holds her back, and doesn't let go even when she punches and kicks and bites and tears at Mama's hair and screams like the world is ending.

Ser Eirk sighs, nudges his horse into a trot, and they round the corner onto the road.

_Dear Scarlet (TEMPLARS DONT READ THIS)_

_I am writing you and sending Joff after the templars with this letter so that you can read it on your trip. He says he probably will not catch you but he is a big liar and if he doesn't make it to you I will punch him so hard. And tell everyone that he cried when we found the baby rabbits that died because of the hawk. Im sorry I told mama, I thought she would help and not send for the Templars but Im going to put salt in the sugar jar so she will ruin her tea. I will get you out of there I promise  
_ _LOVE_

_ROSE_

_[there were kiss marks and giant, sloppy hearts drawn all over the paper]_

 


	11. Chapter 11

9:27 Dragon

_Dear Scarlet,_

_I thought you should know that Joff went to be with the Maker last week. Head wound. His patrol partner said he was fine, a little woozy, and then suddenly he was dead. There wasn't even time to call a healer. Mary is devastated. This after they lost their little girl last year. I don't know what she will do._

_I know the others haven't kept in touch, but Joff always asked after you. A few weeks ago we talked about you at great length, and he admitted (after a lot of whiskey and prodding) that he wanted to write but had no idea what to say after so many years. He felt so guilty. He cried for days after they took you, and he and Jon never really reconciled about it. I don't know if he wrote a letter or not, and he asked me not to say anything, but I thought you should know and he's not here to stop me._

_I'm joining the Denerim city guard like he did. I've enclosed my new address so you can write back to me there. Don't tell me I can't, I've already had that conversation. I'm the best shot in the arling, I can do what I want._

_On a happier note, I'm sending you more books. I hope you like them. I think you'll find_ The Lady and the Tramp _is of particular interest—it's a first edition, rather rare (and, may I say, expensive). I have one just like it. It's of upstanding moral fiber and excellent quality._

_I hope you are finding friends in Kirkwall, though please do take more care in choosing your very CLOSE friends._

_Love,_

_Rose_

9:31 Dragon

_Dear Rose,_

_Thank you so much for your letter about the Battle of Denerim. We all got together while I read it—even some of the Templars joined us. It all sounds incredible. The elves here were particularly thrilled to hear so much about the Hero of Ferelden. The phrase “That's how we do it in the alienage, you fucking shem” has been bandied about more than once. I officially apologize for doubting that you could take care of yourself, although you should know that I was in a right panic until I found out that you were alive, and next time there's a Blight in a city where you're in the City Guard I would really appreciate you sending word a little more quickly. I'm sure you're busy, but, would “Hello, I'm not dead, more later” have been so difficult?_

_In other news, new puzzle. Try this:_

_2-22 2-23 100-129 191-22 2-25_

_4-4 4-5_

_You can try all you want, but you'll never get it. I win this round, I think._

_I made a new friend, Grace, just in from the Starkhaven Circle. She says hello._

_Love,_

_Scarlet_

 

The code was Scarlet's idea, but it was Rose who found the books. Two books of the same printing, identical. The first number referred to a page number, the second to a word on the page. They had passed all manner of messages back and forth this way, under guise of being puzzles—Scarlet had been obligated to explain the “solution” to a number of them upon Templar's demands (and even a couple of pleasant, conversational questions—not all of them were monsters) over the years. Her hand shook as she coded out what she wanted to say, smearing and splattering the ink, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

_I can't do this anymore_

_Please help_

 

_Scarlet,_

_Hah! You'll HAVE to do better than that. Took me all of ten minutes. It's Corey's stupid horse—as if it could be anything else. I'm disappointed in you._

_Here's one for you:_

_14-2 14-3 14-4 14-5_

_84-3 84-4 84-5_

_24-2 24-3 24-4_

_Hello to Grace! I'm glad you're making friends. With a name like that, I hope she'll be a steadying influence. I think you should talk with her about that last puzzle you sent me, or the First Enchanter, I know you've spoken with him before about this kind of thing and he would want to know about it, don't you think?_

_You're welcome for the letter._

_Not much time for writing, I'm off on a trip soon. Going to be traveling for a long while, you may not hear from me, but I'm a big girl, so_ _please_ _don't_ _worry._

_Love,_

_Rose_

 

Scarlet slept with the letter under her pillow, carried it in her pocket during the day.

_I have a plan._

_Wait for me._

_I love you._

9:32 Dragon

“It's a beautiful day outside,” Scarlet reported as she sat down with the bland, overcooked mush that was masquerading as vegetables for today's lunch.

“I wish you wouldn't do that,” Grace said from across the table.

“I just don't want my impeccable weather augury skills to go to waste.”

Next to Grace, Lena rolled her eyes, but she busied herself with her soup in a very performative way that meant she was going to cry. She was younger than both of them by several years, just barely beyond her Harrowing. Scarlet knew she should let it go, should stop before she upset her further, should be better than this, but some sense of impotent rage, some petty desire to be cruel, _something_ made her keep at it. Like peeling a scab. Or poking your finger into a stab wound.

“Let me see,” she said, putting her hand to her temple in a dramatic and unnecessary gesture. “Sunny, about 72 degrees, a light breeze off the sea that smells of...ooh, rosemary, there must be a big shipment in--”

“How could you possibly even know that?” Lena said, trying for sarcasm and failing miserably.

“I can just tell. There's a cloud overhead that looks like a lion, later there will be a gentle rain but for now the sun is warm, it would feel like your mother's kiss on your forehead--”

Lena got up so suddenly she almost tripped on her own feet and practically ran away, leaving her lunch untouched, as Grace said “Enough!” putting her hand on the table in a gesture that was only threatening if you knew what Grace was capable of. “She's just a child, what is wrong with you?”

“Everything,” Scarlet said, looking after Lena without feeling a thing except bone-deep exhaustion.

It had been six months, four days, since any of the Kirkwall mages had been allowed to go outside. The windows were locked, the doors were barred, even the courtyard was off limits, it was all so arbitrary and _stupid_ , and it was driving them all insane.

“It won't help it we torment each other,” Grace continued, and though she sounded tired, her anger was clear and her words were true enough. “That's their job.”

Scarlet took a deep breath, let it out all in a rush. “Maker's _tits._ You're right. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize to me, you fool.”

Scarlet grabbed Lena's abandoned lunch (her own she left; her appetite was totally gone), and slipped out, keeping her head down to avoid having to look any Templars in the eye. Some of the Kirkwall crew took direct eye contact as a challenge. Kinloch Hold had been a prison, sure enough, but she didn't remember it being a war zone—of course, that was before the disaster. She sometimes wondered what would have happened to her if she was still there, what it would have been like to meet the Hero of Ferelden as she swept in to clear out the abominations, save the innocent mages, and (Scarlet had only imagined this part, but it gave her a lot of joy) snatch the Rite of Annulment out of Greagoir's hands and wipe her ass with it. Scarlet liked to think she'd have joined forces with her and helped stop the Blight. On the other hand, she could have been torn to pieces by an abomination. And some days (like now, as she passed Karras and tried not to feel his eyes on her back), she wondered if that might not have been an improvement.

 _Over-dramatic nonsense,_ she heard Rose muttering (the last time they'd spoken to each other was years ago, but Scarlet carried on conversations with her in her head regardless). She squared her shoulders, continued on her quest to find Lena.

The younger mage was standing at the huge windows on the 6th floor, the ones that overlooked the harbor, pressing her forehead against the glass. It was a gorgeous view. From this height you could pretend not to see the giant slave statues. She heard Scarlet coming, turned and glared at her. “I don't want to talk to you,” she said fiercely.

“I don't blame you,” Scarlet said. “I brought your lunch, though. If you want it.” She set it on the windowsill. “I'm sorry, Lena.”

“Well your apology is not accepted,” Lena said, turning back to the window and ignoring her lunch. Scarlet found it hard to argue with that. She turned to go, then turned back around again.

“Here,” she said, “Move over.”

“Don't talk to me,” Lena said, but she moved over anyway. Lena, at heart, just wanted everyone to be happy. Scarlet studied the window pane for a minute, following it to see where she could work without damaging its structural integrity, found a good spot right around Lena's eye level. Perfect. She glanced up and down the hallway—it was empty—blew on her fingertips, traced a circle in the glass no bigger around than a crabapple, pressed her thumb into the center, and pulled. The little circle lifted away and fresh air tumbled in, caressing her skin, moving her hair, filling her lungs. She took a deep breath of sea air and Lena let out a little sigh of longing. With a great effort of self-control Scarlet moved away so the younger girl could crowd up against it. She started to offer all sorts of warnings about not staying too long, not getting caught, but instead she started to cry, turned and walked away, leaving Lena alone to pretend her life was her own for a few minutes.

She remembered the little circle of glass in her pocket half an hour later. Far too late. She ran back up four flights of stairs (praying the whole time for divine intervention, _come on come on please please please please_ _don't let this happen you_ _bitch,_ not sure if she meant Andraste or herself) and arrived just in time to watch Lena get marched off by Karras and a Knight-Corporal. She was uncharacteristically stoic, her jaw set, she looked both very brave and very fragile, and Scarlet gripped the circle of glass in her pocket so hard her hand ached, paralyzed with fear or indecision or cowardice or a thousand other things. She thought suddenly of Rose, throwing ground glass in the air so it would sparkle like magic. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood, pitched her voice to carry. “Karras let her go, it was me.”

Knight-Commander Meredith wasn't in residence, but Scarlet's instinct to thank Andraste for small favors was tempered. She had left Kinloch before Knight-Captain Cullen got there, but he almost certainly knew why she'd been transferred to Kirkwall anyway, and he wasn't known for his lenience even if he wasn't as bad as some of the others, and _she just wanted a little fresh air,_ she kept repeating to herself as she sat outside the Knight-Commander's office like she was a child caught being naughty and not a fully grown adult who had shaped the Fade and resisted demons (perhaps not as cleanly as some might have, but still), and what the _hell_ was taking them so long, she'd been waiting here an hour at least, growing steadily more panicked.

Thrask rounded the corner quickly, Karras half a step behind him and looking mightily pleased with the situation. “What were you _thinking?”_ Thrask asked without preamble.

“That children need fresh air,” she spat before she could think better of it. Thrask rubbed his forehead—a spasm of something like guilt flashed across his face before he did—as Karras stalked up beside him.

“Children and mages need discipline, ask me,” he said, his voice sneering,  _oily,_ like something oozing and foul left out in the hot sun for too long. Scarlet clenched her hands together, wondered if she could take him down before he had a chance to react, wondered how much flogging would hurt, really, wondered if there was any point to wondering or if she should just—

“Karras!” First Enchanter Orsino was on Karras' heels, like some sort of divine intervention, and Scarlet felt her spirits rise—she hadn't thought he was back yet. “Why wasn't I informed of this?” he demanded, inserting himself between the two Templars and Scarlet in the way he had that was at once natural and totally impossible to ignore. For all that he barely came up to their shoulders, not many of them could stand in front of him, not without a handful of their fellows to back them up (too bad there were so many of them and only one of him). Karras didn't quail, not exactly, but he wasn't going to get the kind of support he wanted from Thrask, and he had to turn his whole attention to Orsino—which was the point, of course, and Scarlet was so grateful she could have cried.

“It doesn't concern you, Orsino.”

“Everything about my people concerns me,” he said, voice low and dangerous, and Scarlet stood up next to him, folding her hands in her robes to try to stop them shaking (it was easier to feel strong, hopeful, when Orsino was with you, ready to shout or stare down a Templar on your behalf. It was easier to remember that you were a person when he reminded you).

“Ser!” A sweating, red-faced, Knight-Corporal barely older than 18, whose name Scarlet hadn't bothered to learn, came screeching around the corner, piling into the hallway with the rest of them. Both Orsino and the Templars turned to look at him, and he gulped and looked between them several times as if not sure whom he should be addressing. He eventually picked a spot on the wall between them. “There's a couple of Grey Wardens here.”

“Grey Wardens?” Orsino asked. “What for?”

“What of it?” Thrask demanded. “Send them to the Knight-Captain.”

“Well, ser,” the Knight-Corporal said awkwardly, and then pointed at Scarlet, “they're here for her.”

Rose swept her out the door with an arm around her waist and a hand on her bow, the look on her face daring anyone to comment, and the last thing Scarlet saw of the Kirkwall Circle was Grace, leaning over the second floor balcony, her eyes wide in an expression Scarlet couldn't place.


	12. Chapter 12

9:34 Dragon

_Dear Grace,_

_I'm sending you all the paper I could scrounge up, but I can't find much in the way of ink out here. I hope that it gets to you along with this letter, and that it's helpful as you continue your research on my behalf. Your input has been very valuable to official Grey Warden business, which was set on me by the Warden-Commander herself, and if you're unable to continue assisting me due to lack of resources, she will know the reason why._

_I've also enclosed several sketches and rubbings of the runes we've been struggling with, if you could please have a look. You were always better at this sort of thing than me. [several paragraphs of translations and magical theory follow, all as deadly dull as possible, intended to make a Knight-Recruit on mail duty get bored and ideally wander off to the next letter]_

_Speaking of official Grey Warden business, remember how I mentioned that boy I had a crush on and you told me that he was more trouble than he was worth? This Grey Warden officially owes you several silvers. I'm at a small outpost near the edge of the Hissing Wastes. Tomorrow we head in there for Andraste knows how long, and I won't lie, I'm not really looking forward to it, but the point is that I don't have the letter where you bet me I would regret getting mixed up with a Hawke and I can't remember how much I owe you off the top of my head. Just let me know what you think is fair, bearing in mind my fragile emotional state (stop laughing and DON'T say you told me so, you're supposed to feel sorry for me)._

_I miss you,_

_\- Scarlet_

 

_[on the same paper]_

_Scarlet,_

_Fifty silver._

_\- Grace_

 

_[on the same paper, hastily scribbled and immediately sent back]_

_FIFTY??? Surely not. Was I drunk?_

_\- S_

 

_[on the same paper]_

_Would I lie to you in your fragile emotional state? Cannot speak to your state of inebriation but would not be surprised, given rumors regarding Grey Warden debauchery--only surpassed by legends regarding Grey Warden stamina. Curious if either is true, and also when you will be moving on from fragile emotional state—are not most of your comrades Orlesian? Surely someone(s) is dying to help you overcome heartbreak. Life is short. You're free, you have to live it for all of us._

_Had trouble making sense of these, but have enclosed thoughts. A little bit of extra study never hurt anyone. Thank you for the paper._

_[in very small letters at the bottom] It's hard here._

_\- Grace_

 

~~_Grace,_ ~~

~~_Curious to hear myself lectured on moving on by the woman carrying more torches_ ~~

_Dear Grace,_

_When I do move on, you will be the second or third to know (presumably I will be the first, followed by individual upon whom moving has occurred). Have sent word back to a mage friend at Montsimmard, where my things are kept, asking for her to send you some books you might find of interest (will be all texts, she unfortunately has no taste for fiction) and more paper and ink. Anything else I can send, just say the word._

_What's going on? Who's in love with whom? How are the apprentices looking? What of the Fraternities? Any news of Madame de Fer? I'm so rarely on the road with other mages, and I'm dying for gossip. Tell me everything._

~~_I also have a question regarding a slightly more_~~ ~~_I've enclosed a description of a particular_~~ _Would love your input on enclosed, and that of any Tranquil with knowledge. This is slightly more personal than previous inquiries, but no less important._

_Per your questions, can confirm stamina (nice, yes, but if we are being honest not always a plus, sometimes rather exhausting), nothing to say re: debauchery as there is not enough space. I've sent you all the rest of my paper._

_Enclosed: first of payments due. Request more time for rest, as am still wretched with money having never had to learn to manage it. Fortunate for me that Grey Wardens unlikely to need retirement funds._

_\- Scarlet_

 

_Marrak,_

_Staff enclosed, so you can dispense with that terrible loaner. Just chuck it off a cliff, it doesn't deserve to exist. Speaking modestly, I am enormously proud of the work I've done here, and I think you'll find I have every reason to be. I even managed to save most of your carvings, though the large one at the top was almost entirely destroyed. Clarel brought me the stormheart herself; I took the liberty of fashioning it to resemble your griffin, with some modifications. That rose took me a full week. If that doesn't suit I can revisit, there's plenty left. You should notice significant increases in range and spellpower, and Holzer says you favor lightning so I added some runes I had laying around. Don't worry about paying me back for those; call it a memorial for Rose. I've left the grip for you to finish, as requested. You did well on the last one, but be more careful with the edges this time or you'll slice your fingers off._

_Jehanne asks me to tell you hello, and that she misses you. As soon as she got your letter about Grace she put together a shipment of books and supplies, including all the ink at the fortress, tutting and fretting about the overreach and historical abuses of the Templar Order and occasionally saying "Oh, I'm so glad you're not in the Gallows, Gos."  I think I love this woman. I didn't know Grace very well, but I've added some things as well, out of a mixture of guilt and relief. List enclosed for your reference._

_Jehanne also says thank you for the vandal aria. If you can get your hands on a decent amount of quality gurn hide before the turn of the year, we'll call it square on the rest of your staff._

_Enjoy the Hissing Wastes (see? I can make bad jokes too)._

_-Steiner_

 

9:35 Dragon

[2nd month: Pluitanis / Guardian]  
Report from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
B-15, easily handled. Primary target eliminated.

[6th month: Ferventis / Justinian]  
Report from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
A-7 easily handled, minor injuries. Primary target questioned at great length (report enclosed); secondary targets identified, eliminated. Moving straight on to new target, identified from A-7 primary target, designating A-8 for ease.  
[Note from Warden-Commander Fontaine – Whose idea was this ridiculous operation name?]  
[Note from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt – That would be someone's pet mage, ser]

 

[11th month: Umbralis / Firstfall]  
Report from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
A-8 handled. Injuries. Request week of leave in [redacted].  
[Note from Warden-Commander Fontaine – Request granted]

 

-9:36 Dragon -

_General Notification: All Grey Wardens_

_Warden-Commander Fontaine having undertaken her Calling, Clarel de Chanson to succeed as Commander of the Grey in Orlais._

 

[3rd month: Nubulis / Drakonis]  
Report from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
B-7 handled. No injuries. Exceptional work by Warden Marrak. Full report enclosed.

 

_Commander,_

_Congratulations on your promotion! Since I assume this came with a raise, and since it's unbecoming of an officer to gamble with her subordinates, does this mean I don't owe you 17 silver for that last game of Wicked Grace anymore? If so, please inform Warden Holzer I will be making final payments for services rendered with due haste._

_In all seriousness, congratulations. About time more of us were represented in the top ranks._

_\- Scarlet_

_PS You will not BELIEVE the amazing thing this stormheart did the other day. Fortunately I have witnesses. I still can't thank you enough._

 

_Warden,_

_Your leaps of logic are truly dizzying. Stop trying to get out of paying your debt to society--and to me. Pay up at your next liberty or face the consequences._

_\- WC Clarel_

 

_Commander,_

_Double or nothing?_

_\- S_

 

_[same page]_

_Remember you said that._

_-WC C_

 

[11th month: Umbralis / Firstfall ]  
Report from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
G-7, handled, some injuries. Primary targets escaped. Pursuing.

 

9:37 Dragon

[1st month: Verimensis / Wintermarch]  
Report from Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
RE: G-7, Primary targets escaped into Deep Roads near [redacted]. Requested, received backup from outpost at [redacted]. Extending pursuit into Deep Roads. 

[5th month: Molioris / Bloomingtide, late in the month]  
Report from Warden Marrak  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
RE: G-7 finally eliminated. Pleased to report elimination took almost as much time as pursuit. Injuries, including serious injury of Warden-Lieutenant Hacklebolt. Have stopped in [redacted] for time being. Sending Hacks back to Montsimmard under care of local healers.  
Apologies for tardiness of report. Mail in Deep Roads totally unreliable.  
[Note from Warden-Commander Clarel – That joke was very funny the first time a Warden told it, in the Glory Age]  
[note from Warden Marrak – Apologies, Commander, very hard to think of new jokes while up to elbows in darkspawn. Here is old one from days in Circle:  
Q; How many Knight-Captains does it take to light a candle?  
A: That's not funny.]  
Primary target offered significant amounts of information, much of it confusing. Requesting two further weeks leave in [redacted] with view to parsing information for some kind of sense of what to do next [note from Warden-Commander Clarel – granted]

[7th month: Solis / Solace]  
Report from Warden Marrak  
RE: Operation Contraception

Commander,  
RE: E-2, Primary targets dead upon arrival. Self-inflicted. They know we're hunting them.

[Reply from Warden-Commander Clarel: Return to [redacted] for further discussion.]

[Reply from Warden Marrak: Negative, Commander. Unexpectedly caught trail of F-1. Pursuing.] 

_Hawke,_

_Understand you're heading near Kirkwall soon. If convenient, request you check in on a friend of mine in the Circle there, Grace. Have not had reply in ages, which is very unusual, and with other news from Kirkwall am starting to get nervous._

_\- Marrak_

 

_Scarlet,_

_Checked in at Kirkwall Circle as requested. Apparently Grace vanished from there some time ago, taking a couple of others with her. Know Wardens aren't meant to get mixed up in politics, but I'm glad for her, that place is a shithole. Templar who told us was absolute tit. Hope that's better news than you were expecting._

_\- C_

 

_[on the same page]_

_Thanks for checking. Any idea who she left with? Cannot immediately identify Templar from description; would need more specifics, as most were absolute tits._

_\- Scarlet_

 

_[same page]_

_Sorry, have no more information; Templar was very unhelpful in addition to tittishness, sort of squashed face like a potato that's been dropped._

_When are you back in Montsimmard?_

_\- C_

 

_[same page]_

_No idea._

 

[8th month: Matrinalis / August]  
Report from Warden Marrak  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
F-1 handled. Injuries. Returning to [redacted].

 


	13. Chapter 13

 9:37 Dragon

[9th month: Parvulis / Kingsway, early in the month]

_Scarlet,_

_I hear you sent your little sweetheart asking after me (tell me again how you've moved on). By now you'll know I'm not there. You're not stupid, just thoughtless, so unless you've managed to forget what it was like, which I suppose would not surprise me, you'll know why I'm not there. I won't tell you where we are or what we're doing, and I don't expect I'll write again._

_When you left, I was furious. I am_ still _furious. ~~You walked out without even~~ I understand why you took your chance, but the rest of us did not have that option, and you abandoned us. You abandoned me. All you could do was send paper and ask me for help, as though we weren't fighting for our lives, for our right to exist, every moment of every day. How dare you whine to me about your love life? You were free to have one._

_Lena killed herself, if you care. She took several of them with her. We should all be so lucky. When Alain of all people started making pathetic little noises about following suit, I did what I should have done years ago—I took him and some of the others, and we ran. I won't bore you with details; you have Important Things to do, and we mere Circle slaves are obviously beneath your notice._

_It's rough living where we are, but we're free. And I'm never going back this time. I don't care what I have to do._

_I don't want to hear from you again._

_\- Grace_

Scarlet had read the letter so many times she could recite it from memory and her head ached with it. She folded the paper up again and stuck it in her pocket as she leaned over the Warden-Commander's desk to stare at the map again. The office windows were thrown open to let in the late summer breeze, but it still smelled vaguely of sweat and frustration. Clarel was getting another mug of coffee; between this and the search for Warden-Constable Blackwall, who'd suddenly gone missing just before Fontaine undertook her Calling, they'd been pouring over maps and decoded notes and reports on interrogations for ages, Scarlet running back and forth from Montsimmard to Vigil's Keep to the Northern Orlesian fortresses in between missions, wearing out messengers across the country, and both women were tired.

“It must be one of these two,” she called, as with a gesture all the pins flew out of the map except the two she meant. For all that desk work was a chore, she was never going to get tired of this part. Clarel hadn't changed much about the office since her promotion, except that instead of weapons it was decorated with artifacts gifted from the Orlesian Circles, one of which was a set of enchanted map markers that reacted to their movements. The pins tucked themselves neatly into their box and the Warden-Commander returned with the steaming mug, took a sip, made a face.

“Ugh. Still no good.” She looked down at the map. “Why these two?” she asked, in the tone of voice that Scarlet had come to realize meant that she was not offering challenge, but looking for clarity.

“They're closest to the lyrium sources.”

“We haven't the manpower for both at once.”

“Understood.”

“Your thoughts?”

“This one.” She pointed at the black pin.

“Why?”

Scarlet considered, but decided she was too tired for anything other than honesty. “It doesn't necessitate going into Kirkwall.”

Clarel looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“I see,” Clarel said. “You know I wouldn't send you back there lightly.”

“I know.”

“I trust your instincts on this, Warden.”

Scarlet nodded, took a deep breath. She opened her mouth to make a decision, but instead she asked, “Can I ask you a personal question?” Clarel nodded. “Do you ever...do you ever think that perhaps without magic...” She stopped.

“Without magic your life would be perfect?”

“Easier.”

“If you were not a mage you would not even be here, if I remember rightly.”

Scarlet flushed. “I don't—maybe. It was the only option we saw. I saw. I'm not the first Warden to walk in off the gallows,” she said, trying for a joke, but Clarel didn't smile. The Commander of the Grey considered her for a long time, her sharp face totally unreadable, then set her mug down.

“I suppose this has something to do with the letter you've been obsessing over while you thought I wasn't looking.” Scarlet groaned and put her head in her hands, both because she was too tired to hold it up any longer, and to avoid having to see whatever was on Clarel's face. “Marrak,” Clarel said. Then, gentler when she didn't reply, “Scarlet. What happened?” 

“A friend. From Kirkwall. She killed herself. She couldn't have been more than 23.” Clarel rummaged in her desk for a minute, then sat down next to Scarlet and touched her shoulder. When Scarlet looked up, she handed her another mug--coffee, and a generous splash of whiskey. “The letter is—another friend had some words to say about my leaving them, and I'm just starting to feel like maybe I should have—” she broke off, suddenly realizing she was essentially talking about desertion with her commanding officer, and sure enough, Clarel's face hardened.

“How many lives have you saved?”

“What?”

“How many? You personally?”

“I don't know.”

“Estimate.”

“Ser--”

“Answer me.”

“Some.”

“More than one?”

“Yes.”

“How many darkspawn have you killed?”

“I don't keep count.”

Clarel leaned closer. “And what could you have done for them if you had stayed?”

Scarlet hung her head and didn't answer.

“You and I have been given gifts by the Maker, and not only gifts but the temperament and skill to use them.”

“You've said that before.”

Clarel slammed her fist on the desk. “Because it's _true._ If I had my way, every mage in Thedas who wished would undertake the Joining tomorrow. Mages have done more to fight the Blight than anyone.”

“There would be no darkspawn without mages,” Scarlet said automatically, hating herself as much as she hated the expression. Clarel snorted.

“Whatever the truth of _that,_ it is a dead certainty that without mages, there would be no Grey Wardens. Magic is not only good for destroying. We need not punish ourselves to appease the fear of others.”

“Then why is nothing I do good enough?” she asked, realizing how petulant she sounded but unable to stop herself any more than she could stop the tears rolling down her face.

“You say, if I were not a mage, these bad things would not have happened to me, my life would be easy and free, I would be happy somewhere with ten fat children and a profitable farm and my family would still love me. Perhaps this is true. But _look_ at me.” Scarlet did. Her face was hard. “If it hurts to use our gifts, if it tears our lives apart, if others are frightened and angered, so be it. If you were not a mage, people you have saved would be dead. You say someone else would have saved them, and maybe that is also true, but maybe also it is not. You say, I could not be with the people I have wanted, I could not save my friend, I could not save my sister, I cannot stop the Chantry from chaining my kind into servitude--” (Scarlet sucked in a breath, but Clarel continued onward, merciless) “you say other mages have done terrible things that men with swords blame and fear me for. Men with swords have done just as much damage as mages with staffs, and have failed to save just as many people, and yet men with swords are free to continue swinging them.”

Scarlet couldn't hold her gaze, so she stared at her coffee. “You do not stable a prize horse just because the dog is nervous.”

“Indeed. What very wise person once said that?”

“You did, ser.”

“I must be worth listening to, then.”

Scarlet dared to raise her eyes, found the Warden-Commander had a tired, sad smile on her face. She raised her mug. Scarlet toasted with her, drained her coffee. “You're right about one thing, at least. That's terrible coffee.”

Clarel sighed. “Some day I hope you will heed me about more than food and what orders you deem convenient.”

“I have,” Scarlet protested. “I am. I'm sorry. You're right.” She leaned over and put her head on the table.

 

_PS I put a lot of time I didn't have to spare into what you asked, and spoke with some of the Tranquil who are here with us, but we cannot see how a Ring of Study would react the way you're describing. Yes there is a degree of recognition between a ring and the mage who received it, but it's not meant to track life at all, and with a non-magical person who only had it for a time it's so far outside the realm of possibility as to be idiotic. You're searching so hard for an answer, you've convinced yourself that there is actually a question, and per usual, you've ignored the real problems in front of you. - Grace_

 

“Who do you want with you?”

“Who's available?”

“Not many. I suggest Warden Howe and Warden Hawke.”

Scarlet grimaced. “No other sword-swingers?”

“First of all, name-calling promotes divisiveness and I won't have it. Second, I'm not in the habit of allowing Wardens to chose their mission companions based on who they have and haven't slept with.”

 

“Right. Sorry, ser.”

“But Warden Sant Biçente, Warden Tillahanen, and Warden-Lieutenant Meren can join you near here,” she pointed at the map. “It never hurts to have more swords, or a dwarf in the Deep Roads. San Biçente is traveling with Warden-Lieutenant Ayla at the moment, and I can reroute Tillahanen and Meren from their patrol.”

“Is Ayla joining us?”

“No, she'll be moving on. Take Warden Bouchard with you, they'll continue on. Two women are good for recruitment.”

“No other--”

“Don't push your luck.”

“Sorry, ser."

\---

_“She had eyes the color of topaz and dark hair that fell across her brow like sword strokes. She strolled into the parlor with such dignified elegance that Donnen didn’t realize for several minutes that she was clad in a housecoat and not a ball gown..._ Hacks, are you listening to me at all?”

Hacks was still bed-ridden most of the time, but at least the room in the Montsimmard Circle where the Wardens had sent him on Holzer's recommendation was airy and bright. The Circle had better facilities and more dedicated healers than the Warden fortress. Despite her inherent distrust of Circle Towers, Scarlet had gone to visit him every day she could, and not just for reading—he'd also needed a transfusion after another surgery, and it turned out you couldn't give Grey Wardens blood from normal people. She leaned over and nudged at his shoulder with the battered copy of _Hard In Hightown_ Cyv had loaned her ages ago.

“Hmm,” he said, which could mean anything. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“A decent meal.”

She laughed. “Circle fare not up to your standards?”

“Beginning to understand why your cooking is so bad.”

“If you don't like this book I also brought _Darktown's Deal._ ”

“Read it.”

“Well I'm not a library. It's that or a text about the theological problem of spirit healers.”

“The entertainment in this establishment is terrible.”

“My most abject apologies, honorable ser. We'll have those responsible sacked immediately, and then whipped and thrown to the dogs. I shall bring you their skulls myself, that your lordship may piss into them, but do mind the carpet, we just had it cleaned.”

He gave the jerky half-shrug that he'd been using to indicate when he was laughing, as actual laughter was prone to make his lungs open up again. Scarlet took the opportunity to look hard at the bandages over his eyes. She didn't know what she hoped to see—better healers with more knowledge than her had been here minutes before. “At least you do the voices well.”

“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“I'm very mean to you, it's true.”

She smiled. “I'm smiling.”

“A happy smile?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead and read more if you like the book so much.”

_“'You have news about my husband? What’s Seamus done this time, forget to pay his bill at the Rose?' She seated herself and indicated the guards do the same. Donnen nodded at the recruit to speak up...”_

She read until her voice was hoarse, the sun had set, and the candles were burned almost out, but the book wasn't finished. “We ship out tomorrow, shall I leave this with you and harass some hapless apprentice into agreeing to finish it?”

“Sure,” he said absently. He seemed to be half asleep, or deep in thought, or just far away.

“If Tethras isn't to your liking I've got a couple of other crime serials I can bring when we get back. Unless you'd prefer something smutty, you dirty old bastard.”

“I won't be here.”

“That's the spirit.”

“I'm saying...don't plan to have me around to clean up after you anymore.”

She paused, clutching the book. “When did you have your Joining?”

“9:15? 17? Doesn't matter. It's been long enough.”

“They said 30 years.”

“Sometimes it's that.”

She sat down.

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Good.” He turned over his hand and she put hers in it, squeezed until her knuckles cracked. “No idea what you do with a Warden who can't walk to his Calling, but I guess we'll find out.”

_Maker's breath._

“You are crying.”

“No I'm not.”

“I can tell, you know.”

“I could go with you.” He started to reply, and she bowled over him before he could. “Not the whole way, just to Orzammar--”

“You ever escorted a Warden to their Calling?”

“No.”

“Don't start with someone you love.”

“Fuck,” she said after a long silence. He squeezed her hand, pulled it up and pressed it to his chest, right about where his griffin was, so she could feel his heartbeat in the back of her hand.

“I'll miss you, Red. I always wanted children. Now go, you've got work to do.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Do you want me to tell you she's a fool?” Scarlet asked as they tramped along beside the river a few days later. “I will.”

“No,” Bouchard said with a very pretty, very sad sigh. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“It's true, though. Anyone who had you and let you go is a fool.”

“You are too kind, my friend. It would never have worked between us anyway. I know there are Wardens with normal sweethearts, even families, but I'm not sure how. It seems cruel to both, especially those we must leave behind sooner rather than later.” Bouchard looped her arm through Scarlet's elbow with the sort of easy familiarity that made Scarlet feel a little less broken some days, and continued. “Tell me about how your own love life goes.” Scarlet snorted, and Bouchard nudged her gently. “Come now, surely there is someone who's caught your eye.”

“My eyes have been very busy staring at reports,” she said, which wasn't entirely a lie. “Nothing worth repeating. Lately I seem to be surrounded by nothing but Grey Chasers and mustache-twirling evil types. Although,” she added, trying for a wicked grin, “there _was_ a barmaid in Denerim. And her best friend, who happened to be a Chantry sister...”

Bouchard perked right up. “Oh, Chantry sisters are the _best_! Tell me _everything_ ,” she demanded.

“They knocked me out and stole all my money, and I woke up in an alley halfway across the city,” Scarlet said, and Bouchard let go of her arm and muttered several Orlesian oaths as Howe laughed behind them. “I don't actually think she was a Chantry sister, come to think of it.”

“You miserable little wretch. I thought this was going to be a much better story.”

“So did I! It's not my fault I have terrible taste in partners. Fuck, now I'm depressed. Let's go hunt some broodmothers.”

“You can hunt broodmothers. I am going recruiting,” Bouchard said with a satisfied smile.

“Ugh, I keep forgetting.”

“I don't. I'm going to be visiting all the finest taverns and prisons that southern Thedas has to offer, and with a little luck I'm going to meet a beautiful, wealthy patroness to carry me away from all this.”

“Great. I'm going to die alone.”

“Every Warden dies alone.”

“Heartwarming,” Howe put in from behind them, his voice dry. Scarlet grinned. She liked Nathaniel Howe. They'd met while she was stopping at Vigil's Keep between missions, and become running partners—he didn't seem to mind having to modify his pace, and she liked that he let her go on and on about whatever she was interested in talking about without judgment or interruption. For a while she'd thought maybe there was potential there, but though he'd been kind enough about it, he was definitely not interested. Anyway, he'd been chattier than Carver, who had offered awkward greetings to everyone and then stuck to making himself useful by carrying pretty much everything. Which wasn't to say Howe had been chatty—she was glad Cyv and Sant Biçente were joining them, or this was going to be an even longer trip than the Deep Roads always were.

“Alright, Howe, what do you want to talk about instead?” Scarlet asked, glancing over her shoulder at him, Carver a few steps behind. “How's your love life?”

“Disappointing,” he said. “I also find this lifestyle doesn't really lend itself to romance.”

“Come on, what's not romantic about mindless hordes of enemies and the creeping press of an early death?” Carver put in.

“The man makes a good point,” Bouchard said. “Surely some eligible soul would love to hear about all the time you've spent cleaning darkspawn guts out of your teeth.”

“Your _teeth_?” Scarlet asked, appalled. “You're not supposed to eat them!”

“I don't! It splashes sometimes.”

“I can confidently say I've never had that problem,” Howe said.

“That's because you keep your mouth shut in combat like a sane person,” Carver said.

“As do I, now,” Bouchard said.

“This is why we're all going to die alone,” Scarlet said.

Bouchard cried most of the night, out under the stars since they'd eschewed tents, and Scarlet crawled over and sat with her while she cried herself out and the men pretended not to hear.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I just...” she sighed, leaned her head on Scarlet's shoulder (she smelled like honeysuckle and leather), and Scarlet knew a sudden rush of warmth. They stayed that way for some time, and then Bouchard whispered near her ear, “I wish we had put up a tent,” brushed her fingers over Scarlet's cheek, got up, and went back to her bedroll.

The next morning Scarlet took extra care with her appearance (as much as one could in camp), was a little jumpy, and could barely contain herself, until they met up with Ayla and Sant Biçente around dinner, and it soon became apparent that the Warden-Lieutenant was first in line to soothe Bouchard's wounded heart. She eventually threw up her hands (metaphorically) went to help Sant Biçente pitch the second tent and said to him, bitterly and in Antivan, which no one else in camp spoke but the two of them, “You know, you're the only person here who hasn't rejected me in some way.”

“When did you proposition Ayla?” he asked with an amused look.

“Asked to borrow a couple of silver a few months ago.”

“Darling, no sane person would let you borrow any money,” he said, and she rolled her eyes but couldn't dispute that. “But I will do my best not to add to the tally, as long as you don't ask me for some of my dinner,” he said, casting a glance back towards the others.

“I would never. I like my hands attached.”

“You're a good friend.” He looked over his shoulder yet again.

“Alright, who are you looking at?”

“Who do you--no, no, sorry my friend, I don't want to jinx it.”

“Pretty sure you could have your pick, you know.”

“That's kind of you,” he said, uncharacteristically nervous, and she crossed her fingers for him and let it go.

Bouchard and Ayla left just after dawn the next morning, heading for civilization. Scarlet gave Bouchard a hug (Ayla did not invite hugging as a general rule) and tried not to be grumpy. “Have fun,” she said. “Eat real food and sleep in beds, and think kindly of us poor fools.”

“You never know, perhaps the darkspawn run a bed and breakfast.”

Ayla shook hands all around, and then they were off. Meren and his patrol were due that evening, which left the other Wardens a little time to enjoy the sunshine before they retreated underground for however long. They had a leisurely breakfast, and Scarlet was glad for Sant Biçente, who was preternaturally sunshiney and ready to chat.

“Howe, want to go on a run?” she said after, whipping her hair into a braid as Carver turned a shocked face on her.

“When did you start running?”

“When things kept chasing me,” she said, finished her braid, stood up. “Howe, you want to go or what?”

“I would, but I'd planned to do a little hunting and you're the least sneaky person I've ever met.”

“That's hardly fair,” Sant Biçente put in, “you've also met some ogres.”

“I'm including them,” he said with a grin.

“Rude,” Scarlet said.

“I'll go,” Carver volunteered. “Could use a bit of a stretch.”

“Alright then. Sant Biçente?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“My armor's not going to clean itself,” he said, from where he was lounging on the grass.

“Please, you're not going to clean anything.”

“No I'm not. I'm going to lay here like a lazy sod and be happy for a rest before we go tramping through the asshole of the world for weeks on end.”

Scarlet laughed despite herself. “Hard to argue with that.” She glanced at Carver. “Let me get changed.”

They followed the river a couple of miles north, then turned east for another few miles before Scarlet had to stop and beg for a rest. The land was flat, the day was warm but not oppressive, she'd figured out a new way to strap her breasts down so they didn't bounce quite so much, Carver didn't try to talk, and altogether she was in better spirits than she had any right to be. She flopped down on a patch of sunny grass and looked up at the sky.

“Been a while. How've you been?”

Well, he hadn't tried to talk before. She waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Busy. Thanks for checking in with my friend.”

“Of course. Have you heard from her at all?”

“Sort of,” she said, and then changed the subject. “How's your sister?”

“Alright. She misses Mother.”

“How are...” this was dangerous territory, but it was polite to ask anyway, and if she kept cloud-gazing (that one looked like a bunny—no, that was a chimera—no, it was a bunny) she didn't have to look at him, “you? About that?”

He was quiet for a minute. “She's with Father and Bethany now. And she got to have the estate back, and meet my sister's partner at least. And she'll never know that she won't have grandchildren,” he added lightly.

“Not even your sister?”

“I hope not. Her partner is a total cock.” Scarlet laughed, and Carver chuckled too, a little bit bitterly, and then he continued. “When my mother died I feel like--I said—I was pretty horrible to you.”

Scarlet stared hard at the bunny-shaped cloud and thought _very_ hard about her next words. “You know that scar Hacks has on the right side of his face?” she finally said.

“The long one?”

“The long one. I gave him that. Just after we lost Rose.” Carver whistled. “That was before I almost got myself killed. I was such a spectacular mess he threatened to have me court martialed.”

“Yes, but—wait, we have court martial proceedings?”

“Apparently. He was all set to dust them off. So...don't worry about it.” There was a little uncomfortable pause. “What was your first time in the Deep Roads?”

“When I almost died and my sister convinced Stroud to attempt the Joining. You?”

“When my sister died.”

“So this is going to be a fun trip down memory lane.”

“Let's go back to camp and drink away our problems.”

“You always say the most inspiring things.” He stood up anyway.

They got back to camp, and neither Howe nor Sant Biçente was anywhere to be seen. Carver stripped off his shirt (she yanked her gaze away) and went for a swim, and Scarlet went to the tent, intending to swap out her breast band for something a little more comfortable. They hadn't bothered to pitch another tent after Blackwell and Bouchard left.

She should have learned to listen at tents before she opened them.

Howe and Sant Biçente were half-undressed, bits of clothing scattered everywhere, the tent in shambles like they'd been wrestling, and there was so much _muscle_ that she just stood, intrigued, for a few seconds longer than it took her to realize she was intruding. Then she angrily yanked off her breast band from under her shirt and flung it at them. “Fuck each other outside the tent like everyone else!” she yelled (only then did they seem to notice), then dropped the tent flap and stalked to the other side of the camp, where Carver was standing in the water, looking confused. She sat down by the river's edge and crossed her arms in a huff.

“What was that all about?” he said, but then she head Sant Biçente's voice behind her.

“It's five silver to watch, ten to join,” he yelled, and when Scarlet turned around to yell back at him he was already ducking back into the tent. Carver burst out laughing and she kicked water at him.

“Been hoping that would sort itself out, Philippe's been pining over him for ages.”

“It's Philippe now?” she asked before she could stop herself. He only flushed a little bit. His hair was soaked, his trousers were clinging--

“We got to know each other pretty well.”

“How well?” (Why did she ask these questions?)

“So you're not seeing anyone?” he asked, without even any attempt to subtly change the subject.

 _By Andraste's wretched taste in husbands--_ “I'm going on a walk,” she said, standing up.

“We just got back from a run.”

“I want another one.”

She wound up perched on a low-hanging tree branch, close enough the camp was in view, but only just. No telling how long this would take. Grey Warden stamina. Not always a plus. _Andraste got to have two men_ , she though idly, and then giggled at the outrageous blasphemy and slapped a hand over her mouth and wondered what the Maker's cock looked like, if the Maker even had a cock, and who was going to be doing what to whom in that tent, and how awful and invasive it was of her to sit out here and imagine that, and whether she could come up with ten silver (doubtful) and how aroused one could be without actually dying from it.

Carver jogged over after a bit (still shirtless, which did not seem like an oversight), handed her a bottle. “You mentioned drinking away your problems.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I could loan you ten silver,” he said, maintaining a straight face for all of one second.

“I could turn your testicles to ice cubes,” she shot back, and he laughed and held up his hands.

“Alright, alright, I'm going. It's good to see you again,” he added.

“You too.” And Maker take her for an idiot, it was.

He went back to camp and she hung around for a while as her ass fell asleep and she convinced herself that she could behave in a rational manner, and as the sun started to climb in the sky and Howe and Sant Biçente emerged, looking very pleased indeed, she hopped down and stretched, and wandered back to camp.

She got back just as Carver spotted Cyv and Meren rounding the nearby hill, Mabarki on their heels. Cyv broke into a run towards her, but Mabarki got there first, and jumped up to lick her face with a tongue the size of a skillet. Scarlet managed to stay on her feet, but then Cyv tackled them both and they went down in a pile of limbs and ecstatic dog. “I missed you!” she said as Mabarki barked loudly enough to leave Scarlet's ears ringing.

“It's only been a few months,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Feels longer, because you--” she poked her in the side, “never write me back.”

“Sorry,” Scarlet said, sitting up, and jumped as Cyv poked her again. “Ow! What am I supposed to write to you about? 'Hi Cyv, still very single, lots of darkspawn, more later'?”

“Maybe 'Hi my most wonderful of friends, not dead, I miss you so much, thank you for the long letters full of interesting gossip you so painstakingly gathered for me.' For a start.”

“Well you've written it for me now, what's the problem?”

Cyv flicked her in the ear. “I have a new book for you regardless of your failings as a pen pal. Ever read _The Merry Mistress of Montsimmard?_ ”

“No, but I hear good things. Speaking of books, I left _Hard in Hightown_ with Hacks, we hadn't finished it yet.”

“Well he probably needs it more,” Cyv said, and there was a tiny hitch in the conversation before she shook herself. “What've you been up to?”

“I don't know. Killing darkspawn, pouting, not replying to my mail. Yourself?”

“The same, except I always answer my mail. Come on.” She smiled and dragged Scarlet to her feet, then over to sit near the campfire, Mabarki trying to wind himself around their legs and succeeding only in tripping Scarlet so that Carver had to shoot out his hand and catch her. She muttered a thanks, trying not to think of where else he might— _Scarlet, stop it_.

When they finally sat down, Cyv squeezed her hand. “So. Kirkwall?” she said, and Scarlet raised one shoulder helplessly. “If there's anything I can do, you let me know.”

“Thanks.” Scarlet could think of several things she could do, or anyone really, but she just lifted the book instead. “This is going to help a lot, I think.”

“It's melodramatic bullshit, you'll love it. Packed with sex. The first chapter is a little slow, but trust me, it gets better.”

The rest of the afternoon went well enough. The river had good fishing, Meren had a deck of cards and a pound of candied pecans, Cyv had some terribly bawdy songs, and they all had a lot of fun ribbing Howe (who bore it with good grace) and Sant Biçente (who loved it), and so by the time it was dark and dinner was cooking everyone was in a pretty good mood.

“Alright, boss, what's the plan going forward?” Howe called and Scarlet shook herself, focused her attention on Meren.

“We don't know exactly where this stronghold is, but we have an idea, and a pretty solid map of that area of the Deep Roads, so hopefully we won't be down there forever,” Meren said. “It's not too far from one of the old thaigs. I won't bore you with the details, but keep your eyes open, there may be something to bring back other than scars and nightmares. I have maps if anyone wants to take a look. Marrak,” he said, turning to Scarlet, “this is your show. Tell us about what we expect.”

“Well, those of you who were in Tevinter for the first one of these should know we think that was their stronghold. With the notable exception of the outpost where Hacks was injured, most since then since then have been maybe a few magisters and a couple of others at most, a ton of darkspawn but nothing we can't handle. Howe can tell you about the last one, it was just these two little apprentices and all the darkspawn were sort of...stunted. Like they hadn't finished baking, if you will. And the broodmother...” The broodmother had been semi-conscious of her humanity still, as well, and that was the worst. “She hadn't quite lost all of herself.”

“Andraste preserve us,” Sant Biçente murmured.

“It was bad, but it was manageable,” Scarlet said. “They know we're hunting them, so we think they're pulling back further into Tevinter and abandoning the southern sites. Either that or we've destroyed most of them.”

“So we expect them to expect us,” Meren said, and Scarlet nodded.

“They were packing up to run. But we still got to help them along.”

“Any prisoners alive?” Carver asked. Scarlet shook her head.

“No. And that reminds me, the apprentices killed themselves before we could interrogate them.”

“So basically,” Meren said, “expect heavy resistance but not as heavy as in Tevinter, and maybe we'll all get rich on the way. Sound good? I mean, except for the weeks without fresh air and sunlight. And the darkspawn. The usual. Anyway, we head out just after dawn. Who wants first watch?”

“I'll do it,” Carver offered.

“Great. Howe, dinner?” Meren said, and the conversation broke up.

“Scarlet,” Cyv said, turning a critical eye on her. “I hope you won't be offended when I say this, but you look terrible.”

“Oh, no offense taken,” Scarlet said with a snort.

“Right, good. Are you washing your hair tonight?”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“Well you should. How long has it been?” Scarlet could not immediately answer that, and Cyv nodded. “That's what I thought. Go do it now and I'll fix it after.”

“The water's cold.”

“Like it's going to get any better where we're going. Go. Clean yourself. _Now,”_ she ordered. “Nobody will look.”

“I doubt that,” Sant Biçente put in cheerfully.

“It's five silver to watch, ten to join,” Scarlet said. Howe burst out laughing, and without hesitating Sant Biçente dug into his pouch, pulled out several coins, and tossed them to her. She tried to catch at least one, but Cyv snatched them all out of the air first, with one hand. “Show off.”

“No funny business! This is a desperate and very serious hygiene emergency!” Cyv said severely, throwing the coins back at him.

“I'm trying to earn a living here,” Scarlet protested.

“Not with your hair looking like that you're not. You have soap?”

Scarlet heaved a great sigh and nodded. It was harsh, cakey stuff, but it was soap. After a little more pressing (“You're not the boss of me,” she said, and Meren broke in “But I am, and she's right,”) she got up, dragged herself and her towel and soap to the river. Cyv sent Mabarki after her as a nursemaid, and he trotted obediently down to the edge of the water to keep an eye on her. It was dark enough outside the circle of firelight she was confident nobody could see her, but she told herself sternly that she didn't care as she stripped off and dunked into the river.

It wasn't _too_ cold. Mabarki got excited and jumped in after her, though he was less excited and tried to wriggle away when she soaped him up. “No sir, you got in the tub with me, that means you have to get washed. Sit. You're filthy.” He growled, but she wasn't fooled. “Cyv, I'm washing your dog!”

“Good, he's filthy!”

“See? I told you,” Scarlet said to Mabarki, who made a sad noise and put his paws over his face. Mabarki was a waking nightmare on the field of combat or when his mistress was feeling threatened, but he was the soul of sweetness the rest of the time. He had accepted Scarlet and a couple of Cyv's other friends as members of his pack, higher in the hierarchy than him, and though he whined about it, he allowed himself to be washed and waited a full ten seconds before he rolled in the dirt by the side of the river. “You ridiculous dog,” she said, and he barked happily.

“Hawke, you better come up with five silver if you want to keep staring,” Cyv said too loudly, to general laughter.

“Maker's inscrutable nonsense,” Scarlet muttered. Mabarki bobbed his head as if in agreement. She shook out her hair, dried off, and scrambled back into her clothes, and had to admit, as she trudged back to the fire with Mabarki, that she felt better.

“You feel better?” Cyv asked as Scarlet sat down in front of her stool. She had moved closer to the fire and fetched a comb and a couple of ribbons in various shades of blue and grey and pink. Mabarki lay in front of Scarlet, put his muddy head in her lap, gave a noxious fart, and promptly fell asleep.

“I do. You were right.”

“As usual,” they said together.

Conversation continued and dinner and bottles were passed around, and Cyv worked the comb through her hair until it was dry and free of tangles, then kept combing it just for funsies, then moved on to gently scratching her scalp, and at some point Scarlet stopped relaxing and started being keenly aware of how good it felt. She had honestly thought she was over her crush on Cyv. Apparently she was wrong. Cyv moved her strong, agile hands down to rub the length of Scarlet's neck, and she swallowed.

“Gonna do a real tight braid around your head, alright? Unless you want two.”

“One is fine.”

“You have such pretty hair.” Cyv said, her hands now on Scarlet's shoulders under her tunic.

Scarlet did not, at this point, trust herself to speak. She swallowed again, made a noise of agreement. Cyv rubbed her neck and shoulders for a while longer, then whipped her hair into an intricate braid, entwining the ribbons with it and tucking the end securely away, patted her arms. “There, that should hold for a couple of days. I'll do it better before we head into the Deep Roads.” She turned to pick up her bottle, and her thigh scraped against Scarlet's shoulder. Scarlet leapt up suddenly, so that Mabarki turned over twice and howled with indignation.

“You alright there, Marrak?” Sant Biçente asked, amused.

“Just excited, got a new book to read. I'm going to lie down, call me when it's time for wards,” she said vaguely, and forced herself to walk slowly away before she tucked herself away in the far back corner of the women's tent, and when the chatter outside had reached its loudest she slipped her hand between her legs and handled things discreetly and efficiently. And then she realized that she had started _bleeding_ again, _Maker's_ _tits._ That explained...a few things.She cleaned up, slipped back out of the tent, pulling Cyv off to the side.

“I don't suppose you brought anything for SUWTs.”

“For _what_ now?”

“Sudden Unexpected Women's Troubles. Sorry, that's what we called them in Kirkwall, the Templars got weird if you mentioned blood.”

Cyv was clearly trying to take this seriously, but that did not stop her lip from twitching. “I haven't bled in years, it's the only good thing about the blight.”

“Me neither. Guess today's my lucky day.”

“I have some extra socks,” she offered. “In my bag, the middle pocket. Help yourself, I always bring 20 more socks than I need. We can pick up actual supplies in Kirkwall. Hey, speaking of Templars,” she said with a twinkling smirk, “does casting right now count as practicing blood magic?”

“A friend of mine asked a Templar once. If he ever recovers, I'm sure he'll answer.”

Cyv laughed so hard Meren asked her what was funny, which she was explaining as Scarlet slipped back into the tent _._ When it was time to set wards, she edged back out again, purposefully not looking at Carver. When she was done she turned back to her tent. He was sitting by the fire, feeding it twigs, and he looked up at her and offered a tentative smile.

“Your hair looks nice.”

“Thanks,” she said, and spent the night trying not to think of the first time they'd been the only ones awake, or Cyv's hands in her hair, or anything about Kirkwall. She was rapidly running out of things to think about.

\---

Even Grey Wardens got a little edgy before going into the Deep Roads, so they all spent a lot of time with Meren, talking about their route, and Scarlet spent a lot of time not thinking about Kirkwall, reminding herself that for all she was terrified of that place, they still had a mission, she'd been working on this for years, and she would see it through if it killed her.

She had long ago started wearing her Ring of Study on her finger. Once she'd worn it on a necklace, but between the crystal and the Warden's Oath there was too much magic in one space—adding the ring made it hard to breathe. She'd thought about giving the crystal away, but pretty was pretty, and nonspecific beneficial magic was still beneficial. Mostly she forgot about the slightly inelegant lump under her shirt until a wayward elbow caught it in combat or she rolled over onto it at night. She might have forgotten about the ring as well, except that it was making its presence known. It pulsed sometimes. Like a heartbeat. A heartbeat that didn't match hers. She hadn't told any of the Wardens that Rose might have been among the victims of this little conspiracy. The Warden-Commander hadn't pressed her to, and every time she tried to say it, the words would get stuck in her throat. She couldn't shake what Grace had said. But the ring was definitely pulsing.

She read the book twice and spent a lot of time on the most mind-numbing tasks she could think of.

When they near enough to see Kirkwall City's huge black walls, they started prepping for the Deep Roads pretty hard. You could buy or commandeer a lot in a city the size of Kirkwall, but there was plenty of hunting in the forest, and better to save their funds and goodwill for water and dried fruits and healing potions. As the city loomed in front of them, Scarlet's anxiety grew worse. She started dropping things, couldn't sleep, snapped at everyone for the smallest offenses so that even Sant Biçente got mad and yelled back, spent too much time one night trying to disguise her staff with blankets and gear. It was too tall, too obviously and proudly magical--the stormheart griffin at the top was staggeringly lovely (and powerful), but didn't make it any more subtle. She loved her damn staff, had spent hundreds of hours and gold on it, had put her literal blood and sweat and tears into it, and now she was trying to hide it.

“I would murder anyone who tried to take you,” Cyv said. Scarlet had thought she was sleeping. She crawled over and put her chin on Scarlet's shoulder, and Scarlet reached down to grab her hand. “Even if you _were_ an apostate. Every Templar in Thedas could come for you and it wouldn't matter, because they would have to go through the rest of us. _Vhenan,”_ she said firmly, “our enemy is underground. Focus on that, and go to sleep.”

They had to cross the river to get to Kirkwall. Normally that meant an easy ford, but as luck would have it they had two days of torrential downpours and had to commandeer the small, rickety ferry three miles downriver. The ferryman was irritated and insisted they cross in groups with the paying customers, which Meren eventually threw up his hands and agreed to, so after a brief discussion she and Carver crossed first and the others sat on the shore and waited.

The ferryman took his time, and Kirkwall loomed in the distance. Scarlet clutched the railing and pretended not to be staring at it as the other customers pretended not to be staring at them. Carver stepped up next to her, but she couldn't tear her eyes off Kirkwall.

“I hate this city,” he said suddenly.

“You and me both.”

“Look,” he said. “I know I haven't really...I wouldn't blame you for not trusting me after...but I wouldn't let them take you. Not that I'm suggesting you need rescuing,” he added. “But if you did, I've got your back. And my sister is the Champion of Kirkwall and best friend of the Captain of the City Guard, so that's not as empty a promise as it might otherwise be.”

“Thanks.” She was glad for the presence of another Warden at her back, whoever it was and however bitter they happened to be (she was glad, in her treacherous and stupid heart, that it was him. She heard Rose's disappointed snort in her head, clear as day).

At the shore, the original passengers disembarked and dispersed, the ferryman loaded his next group, and Scarlet and Carver settled in to wait at the edge of the trees on the riverbank. The ferryman was moving at a glacial pace. “At this rate the river will be calm again by the time he's back,” Carver grumbled, and Scarlet grunted her agreement. Finally the ferry set off again. It had taken about an hour, all told. After a while he reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle. “Take the edge off?”

“Thanks.” She accepted, drank. “What have you got in here?”

“I think last was some very cheap Antivan brandy.”

“Never cared much for it myself, but this isn't awful.” She took another drink, concentrated on the way it burned down her throat and into her chest, handed it back.

“Well I was told it was a very bad year and they couldn't wait to get rid of it, so I'm not sure what that says about your taste.”

“You know me. I'm not a picky drunk.”

“Another reason this was the perfect career choice for you.”

She started to reply, but suddenly he was glaring at the road behind her and waved her into silence.

The Templars walked around the bend in the road openly, swords sheathed. There were four of them, calm, and the Knight-Lieutenant even smiled when he hailed them. She didn't recognize any of them off hand. Carver slid casually over to stand next to her and a little bit in front; his hand twitched towards the hilt of his sword but he didn't draw yet. _Every Templar in Thedas could come for you and it wouldn't matter, because they would have to go through the rest of us._ She glanced back at the ferry; it had barely left the shore. She could see the others waiting on the far shore and gave them a wave. Cyv raised her hand in acknowledgment.

“Carver Hawke?”

“I—yes?” Carver straightened up in confusion.

“I'm Knight-Lieutenant Sykes. The Champion of Kirkwall asked us to offer you an escort into the city. These roads are dangerous lately.”

Carver snorted. “Of course. My sister _would_ send someone to walk me home.”

“There's been a great deal of unrest lately,” said the Knight-Lieutenant. Very diplomatic. This one was eyeing a captaincy. “I think the Champion is just concerned for her remaining family.”

“How thoughtful of her,” Carver said with a roll of his eyes. Scarlet looked over her shoulder again—had the ferry stopped moving, or was it her imagination? “Sorry, Templar. I shouldn't be angry with you. Tell her I'm traveling with a full patrol of Grey Wardens and can take care of myself, so she can save her concern for someone who needs it.”

“Your companions are welcome too, of course. We're happy to wait and escort you all,” the Knight-Lieutenant offered. Carver glanced at Scarlet, cleared his throat.

“Well actually,” he said, and stepped closer to the Knight-Lieutenant, engaged him in conversation so quiet that Scarlet couldn't hear it over the sound of the river. Suddenly one of the Knight-Corporals snickered, and the Knight-Lieutenant gave a short laugh that he tried and failed to hide behind a cough. “Of course. We'll leave you to it, then, but do be careful, Serrah Hawke. The Champion would be most distressed if something were to happen to you.”

“Have fun,” said the Knight-Corporal who had snickered. The Knight-Lieutenant turned to go and gestured for the other Templars to do likewise, and the attack came as Scarlet let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding.

She recognized the telltale hum of a force cage seconds before it hit, and shoved Carver out of the way just in time. She tumbled back to her feet and a fireball flew over her head, not even close enough for her to feel the heat. The mage who had cast it was not far away, peeking out of the trees and cursing as she readied another. Scarlet spared a thought for the sad state of affairs in the Circle's training program if someone could miss at that range, even as she cast _paralyze_ on the deluded little apprentice who thought she could take on a pair of Grey Wardens and four Templars. But there were others, and she didn't have time to gloat. She freed her staff and spun around. “Three mages on the right.” Well, four, but one wouldn't be getting up any time soon. “Your aim is shit!” she yelled, casting a barrier on herself and Carver as he unsheathed his sword (alright, she didn't have time to gloat _much_ ). “I've never missed at that range, you pathetic waste of lyrium--”

Her barrier vanished. A brief, crushing weight pressed on her shoulders, stealing the air from her lungs, and the lightning at the end of her staff fizzled and died. Horror swept over her. _“The Templars.”_ Carver was swinging around before she finished speaking, sword gleaming in the sunlight to meet their attack.

“Go, I've got this,” he said, and she charged at the mages.

There were still three standing—youngish, but not so young as the first. The effects of a Templar stealing your magic could last for a while depending on the strength of their conviction, but in the meantime she had a perfectly acceptable blade on her staff, a dagger at her hip, two fists, and an idea of how to fight with them that most Circle mages would never get to learn. The mage closest to her was taken aback—her uppercut to his chin was _very_ sloppy (Murray would be disgusted, if he even believed her), but he lay where he'd landed, and she was momentarily disappointed that she wasn't going to get to try again. The other mages weren't so surprised—she was almost immediately surrounded by a ring of fire so hot it made her eyes water, and had to shield her head against a whirlwind of rocks. She wasn't fast enough, a couple clipped her in the throat, and she almost laughed, because she didn't feel a thing. Meanwhile the crushing weight lifted—Carver was keeping the Templars occupied—and she really did laugh. A wave of her hand brought the earth up to smother the flames, and as she swept her staff around the the mages toppled under a sudden, violent whirlwind.

“Is that the best you can do?” she called, gathering up the energy for a force cage large enough to hold them all. “This isn't a training seminar, you shits, I'm a _Grey Fucking Warden._ ”

A blade slipped between her ribs, under her raised arm, through the fabric and flesh like butter. Her attacker materialized beside her as if out of nowhere, the Templar red of his leather a strange contrast to the green of the trees behind him. “You're still a fucking mage,” he said between his teeth. _Son of a bitch_ , she said, or tried to say, but her lungs were filling up with blood. An arrow caught him in the throat, and he sprawled away. That was a one-in-a-million shot across the river, she thought, someone should be proud, and then she coughed and blood spilled out of her mouth and everything went dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to that moment when combat is going super well and you're feeling really badass as you bend the laws of physics to your will, and then one of those FUCKING BASTARD ASSASSIN shows up out of nowhere to remind you of your mortality.


	15. Chapter 15

The first thing Scarlet became aware of was _agony._ Her chest felt like it had been cracked open, hollowed out, filled with fire, and then sewn back together with rusty barbed wire. It was overwhelming, worse than anything she'd ever felt, and for a minute she thought she might just let go, drift back into the pleasant empty darkness that she'd been floating in a minute before...but no, her heart was beating, her lungs were filling with air. She was awake. She was alive. Whether she wanted to be or not. She opened her eyes.

The clearing was empty, and either her eyes were dazzled or a lingering spell effect was tinging everything with green. The other bodies were gone; only footprints, the signs of struggle, and a lot of fresh blood testified to the battle. _Ambush._ She groaned, rolled over, passed out briefly, and then came to and hoisted herself to her feet, using her staff as a crutch. At least they'd left her that. Perhaps it too obviously belonged to a Grey Warden to be worth taking. She patted the griffin in thanks, made a mental note to pass that information on to Steiner next time she saw him.

She heard someone yelling her name, and a splash, and turned, still leaning on her staff. There was no sign of the ferryman. Sant Biçente was pulling the ferry across the river as fast as he could, Howe and Meren beside him, bows trained on the trees, and they were fairly flying across the water. Cyv was faster—she swam to shore like an eel and reached Scarlet before they'd even touched land (Mabarki was already there, tearing off into the woods, baying).

“Oh _Creators_ ,” she said, breathless, yanking her into a dripping hug. The hug pressed her necklace into her chest, bringing a fresh wave of agony; Scarlet swore viciously, staggered, and Cyv pulled back, hanging on to her elbows to keep her upright as Scarlet pulled it from under her tunic. The crystal had split open, right down the center, and all the green light inside seemed to have gone out—a little spilled out onto her hand like liquid, tingling where it touched before it dissipated. Cyv gave an awed curse. “Where in Thedas did you get a lifeward amulet?”

“Found it,” Scarlet mumbled. “Didn't realize. Carver--”

“They took him. Alive, we think.” The others had landed, were running up. Howe ran after Mabarki. Scarlet shook her head to clear it. “Can you travel?” Cyv asked.

“Yes.”

“He's got the scent,” Howe called, and they were off, following Mabarki, Sant Biçente supporting Scarlet until her legs started working right.

“Were those really Templars?” he asked.

“Seemed that way.”

“Working with rogue mages, though?”

Scarlet shrugged, took another drink from the healing potion in her hand (ugh, medicine). “I wouldn't have thought it either, but I don't know that you can fake that.”

“Well it better be Templars, because if for some reason the Seekers of Truth are after one of us we're well and truly fucked,” he said, and she glanced at him but decided the look on his face did not invite further question.

Mabarki led them through the forest towards the coast for a few hours, but then the trail vanished on the other side of the another river and he couldn't pick it up again. “It's gone,” Howe finally said, throwing his hands up in the air.

“We head to Kirkwall as planned,” Meren said. “Someone at the Templar Order owes us some answers.”

“Or potentially a cracked skull,” Cyv added.

“If they can't, the Champion of Kirkwall might be able to apply some pressure. She should be told, at least. They're family,” Scarlet said. And so it was that when she reentered Kirkwall, it was with a handful of Grey Wardens so angry that the guard at the front gate actually shrank back when Meren barked “Move.”

“How do we get to the Order?” he asked once they were through. Scarlet pointed.

“Through that way, hop a ferry. Trust me, the Gallows is impossible to miss. I would avoid the Knight-Commander if I were you.” She swallowed. Let them think what they wanted. “Look, Meren, I'm not going in there. I'll go find the Champion.” Cyv took her hand and squeezed.

“Understood. I'll go with you,” Meren said. “None of us should walk alone. They may have wanted Hawke alive, but they weren't extending that courtesy to the rest of us. Wardens, we meet back here in two hours.”

“Hang on.” Cyv pressed her hands to Scarlet's cheeks. “Lean down.” Scarlet did so, and Cyv kissed her forehead, then said something that sounded like a blessing. Scarlet reached up and grabbed her hand, and Cyv nodded. “Alright,” she said, “I'll see you in two hours,” and they split off.

Scarlet and Meren cut an easier path by themselves, and together they were a little less obvious. “This is where you're from, huh?”

“More or less.”

“You know, the last time I got sent back to Orzammar, I almost got murdered twice,” he said as they made their way to what looked like a trio of guards. “So you're behind.” He grinned, and Scarlet grinned back, oddly reassured.

“I'll try harder, boss.”

“See that you do.”

The trio of guards were talking, each keeping half an eye on the passersby. “'Scuse us,” Meren said as they approached, and the tall auburn-haired guard turned a polite face on him.

“How can we help, Wardens?”

“We're looking for the Champion of Kirkwall,” he said, and the woman's polite expression vanished.

“Give us some space,” she said to the other two guards, who saluted, and marched off smartly to take up a post a little ways away, just out of earshot. “What business have you with Champion Hawke?”

“Warden business,” he said tightly.

“Has something happened to Carver?”

“You know the Hawkes?” Scarlet said.

The guard stood up a little straighter (unnecessary but effective; Scarlet already had to look up at her and Meren barely reached her elbow). Her voice took on a deeply no-nonsense tone.“I am the Captain of the Kirkwall Guard. The Hawke family and I fled Ferelden together two steps ahead of the darkspawn horde with only the clothes on our backs. So if something has happened to one of them, I suggest you come out with it.”

Meren looked at Scarlet, who nodded. “Understood,” he said, tone more pleasant. “Though we'd rather speak with the Champion first if you don't mind.”

She nodded. “Fair enough. But—just tell me, he's not dead, is he?”

“Not last we saw,” Meren said. The Guard Captain sighed in relief.

“Thank the Maker, Hawke's been through enough. Come with me.”

She led them out of the docks, through the streets, and up the long, narrow stone stairs that led to Hightown and the Viscount's Keep, and with each slave statue or horrifying ancient carving or fresh graffiti, Scarlet's discomfort grew worse. “What the hell kind of civic decoration is this?” Meren asked, incredulous, when they passed yet another fresco of a weeping, chained slave, this one being beaten.

“Welcome to the City of Chains. This is mostly left over from the Tevinter Empire, as I understand.”

“It's a bit grim, isn't it? It's not so bad as those things at the harbor, though. By the stone, I thought Orzamar had problems.”

The Guard Captain was clenching her jaw, and Scarlet glanced down at the dwarf and gave him a small smile. He fingered the string of his bow and nodded at her again, then went back to eyeballing the city décor with disdain. “You should see the inside of the Gallows. It's a shitshow.”

“You're a member of the Kirkwall Circle, then?” the captain asked.

“She was,” Meren said with a hint of emphasis.

“Easy, serrah,” she said. “I meant no disrespect. I have no problem with Grey Wardens or mages acting legally, and neither do my guards.”

“That's not what I remember,” Scarlet thought about saying, but she bit her tongue. She'd been gone a long time, after all. They were entering what must have been Hightown (Scarlet had never been, but it was undeniably high) when a very short daelish woman came running up to them, breathless and harried.

“Oh Aveline,” she cried, “There you are, I've been looking all over. Hawke sent me to find you, some mages took Carver, he's been _kidnapped._ Are you Grey Wardens? Were you with him? Oh it's awful, come _on.”_

Hawke's home was lovely, tucked away behind a pair of pillars covered in trailing vines. Inside it was chaos. A male elf and a human mage (arguing, it seemed), three dwarves, another female elf, a dog, a handful of servants, and somewhere a trace of blight. “Hawke!” the Guard Captain bellowed, and a woman who was Carver in female form poked her head over the balcony of the mezzanine. “Grey Wardens here to see you, they were with Carver.”

“Thank the Maker,” the woman said, “Aveline we're heading out, things have gotten more complicated, I need you to help keep everything official and above-board. Come up—no, don't, I'll come down,” she said, and then vanished. A few seconds later she was standing in front of them, strapping the last of her wildly impractical armor to her robes. Her fingers were smoking, and leaving small singe marks on her clothes. Scarlet could relate. The rest of her household drifted over as well. “We know where they're holding him, what kind of force are we looking at?”

“There were three Templars, left” Scarlet said.  
“No, just two” Meren put in. “Hawke got one right after you went down. Three or four mages, it's unclear whether one was alive or not.”

“That's all?” the male elf asked with what looked like a sneer. “I thought Grey Wardens were meant to be more fearsome.”

“It was seven against two,” Scarlet protested, rather more loudly than necessary, “and _also--_ ” Meren shot her a look and she subsided.

“ _Enough_ , Fenris,” Hawke snapped. “Alright, if it's Templars, I'll need you three with me.” She pointed at the male elf, the Guard Captain, and the dwarf. “Merrill, stay here in case we get more word. Anders, get ready for...whatever,” she said, voice shaking. The mage (his name sounded familiar, but he didn't look much like anyone she knew) pulled her into his arms. Meren pulled Scarlet aside.

“I'll meet the others and bring them along. You go with this crowd, but stay well out of the way. This has political bullshit written all over it, and the Grey Wardens cannot be seen to be involved. You get the chance, you grab Hawke and get out of there, you hear me?”

She scowled.

“Marrak,” he said firmly. “I mean it. Do not get involved except to save your lives, that's a damned order.”

\---

The elf was definitely mocking her, she decided as she rejoined Hawke's little party after another confrontation on the aptly-named Wounded Coast, which they'd handled easily enough. Her fingers itched with the strain of not acting, and she had to actually bite the inside of her cheek when he snorted _again_ and muttered “spellbind” ( _again)_ , which Hawke either didn't recognize, didn't hear, or wasn't interested in dealing with. Hawke hadn't even objected when Samson had griped about mages going bad as soon as they were given a bit of freedom; she merely told him to get out of her way and shoved past him towards their destination.

“Warden,” she said at one point. “Sorry, I didn't get your name.”

“Marrak. Scarlet.”

“Oh, you're Scarlet. Marion Hawke. Nice staff.”

“Thanks.”

“You were there when my brother was kidnapped?” Scarlet nodded. “I suppose it's too much to hope you know any of the Templars or mages involved.”

“No, sorry. I've been gone a long time.”

“If you see any of them, point them out to me.”

“Gladly.”

“This should be it,” Hawke said as they came up on a turn. “Aveline, if you don't mind.” The Guard Captain came up to walk beside her without question, and Scarlet dropped back.

“May I ask you a question?” the elf said, as if in conversation. Scarlet glanced at him sidelong. “Are all Wardens such cowards that they would allow a comrade to be taken prisoner while they yet lived, or is it just the mages?”

Any number of Cyv's favorite insults sprang to her mind, but the Guard Captain intervened first. “Fenris! Not now.”

They rounded the corner into a narrow strip of beach between two large hillocks of rock, which led soon into a little clearing in which around a dozen people waited. Templars and mages, working together outside the law but still standing on opposite sides of the clearing, locked in the same old ridiculous dance. And there in the center, laying on the ground near one of the fires, Carver. Dead or unconscious or what, she couldn't have said. Hawke sucked in an audible breath upon seeing him, and the air around her shimmered with heat so that Scarlet took a step back and the Guard Captain put a hand on her arm.

One of the Templars—she recognized Ser Thrask and was surprised, but she had to admit she didn't know half of what was going on here—came up, holding up his hands. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn't have come here,” he said. A pair of mages joined him, a boy Scarlet didn't recognize and—Grace. _Maker's breath._ Scarlet held her breath, clenched her fists, overwhelmed with joy that she was alive and terrified at whatever she was doing here _._ “Though I can't understand why you side with Meredith now. You showed me we can stand up to her. Please, Champion, I have nothing but respect for you. It's Meredith we must see gone.”

“Your cause is just,” Hawke said tightly. “But I take issue with your methods.” She jerked her chin in Carver's direction. Thrask looked relieved.

“I should have known you would recognize the threat Meredith poses,” he said. “I am sorry for any distress we caused you or your friends. Let the hostage go,” he called back to his followers.

“No!” Grace yelled. “The boy dies, then the Champion.” Hawke made a sharp move towards them—Grace pointed her staff at Carver, a dark cloud of entropy already arcing out of the top, and Hawke jerked to a halt, shaking with rage.

“Stand down, Grace.” Thrask ordered.

_“Grace,”_ Scarlet breathed, unable to stop herself, pushing up to stand next to Hawke, but Grace interrupted before she could get anything else out.

“Shut up, Scarlet,” she spat without looking at her. “Don't think you can just waltz back in here after six years and be a part of this. _You_ _left._ ” Magic flared from her staff at Carver; only Thrask's quick dismissal stopped it. He pushed her back, and while they were all distracted the dwarf and the elf began sidling into different positions. The dwarf took up a position on top of the rocks where he could aim his crossbow with impunity, and the elf slid around and to the other side, surreptitiously enough since everyone was watching Grace and Thrask argue. The Guard Captain had quietly drawn her sword.

“We will not kill an innocent to achieve our ends. It gains us nothing to become Meredith.”

“Meredith? What do I care for Meredith? I'm here for her.” She pointed at Hawke.

“You hurt my brother, you _die,_ ” Hawke snarled. Grace whirled on her, her face twisted with rage and hate.

“Decimus was right. There is no way for a mage to live by the Chantry's laws. You killed the best man I ever met, but I learned all he had to teach,” she said, and Scarlet realized what was coming a second too late to react. Grace looked past Hawke, straight at her, and then she _reached_.

Scarlet saw more than felt herself moving, as if from far away: magic flickered at her fingertips without her consent, her head turned towards Hawke, and she reached for her staff— _no. S_ he yanked herself back, tripped on a rock, staggered, lost the thread of what was going on as she fought against the power creeping through her bloodstream. Grace had always been stronger than her, smarter, willing and able to do more things (she would have made a phenomenal Grey Warden), but Scarlet's blood was different now, _she_ was different. The fog lifted, she could control herself, even if her chest felt like it was going to split open again. _Looks like you're not the best of us anymore_ , she thought, bent double, gasping for breath, _triumphant,_ and then she looked up.

Grace was bleeding (from the stomach, what was she trying to _do_?), Thrask was dead, and the battle was joined.

Scarlet ducked her head, ran through it, dodged a Templar's sword and a wild burst of magical energy, and dropped next to Carver, yanked out her staff and covered them both with the strongest barrier she could create. His pulse was fluttery but strong, his eyes were rolled back, he was definitely running a fever, and she couldn't wake him. He was far too heavy for her to drag and she'd never got the hang of levitation spells even if she could've navigated through all the chaos, so with Meren's extremely clear orders in her mind, she gritted her teeth, shielded them both with every protective spell she could conjure, and waited out the storm.

Grace caught her eye just before she died. Her face was streaked with tears, twisted with rage, and she didn't notice the elf raising his sword behind her.

(The first time they'd met--lonely, caged like animals, heartbroken, and incredibly bored--Scarlet had dared her to ask the nearest Templar about casting on her period. They had giggled over his stammering, blushing, incoherent reaction for two hours, and been inseparable until Scarlet left.)

Scarlet raised her hand. Whether to cast, to point, or to make an obscene gesture she couldn't have said, because she hesitated. She never knew what she was going to do. When an abomination rose in Grace's body after she died, Scarlet dropped her head and swore viciously over and over again as tiny sparks turned the sand to glass beneath her fingers.

Hawke and her companions made short work of rest of it. When the battle was over, Hawke came running over, fell down next to her in a panic.

“What's happened? Is he alive?”

“He is, but I can't wake him.”

“Alain!” Hawke barked, and the boy mage Scarlet hadn't recognized knelt between them and stammered out a lot of words before he eventually got around to the point--blood magic was the only way to wake him.

“You know him?” Hawke asked Scarlet over the top of his head. She shrugged, glanced at the terrified child.

“Not really, but...” He was shaking like a leaf, so pale he looked like he might actually pass out, and if he was counterfeiting it was _really_ well done. Hawke, whose face was covered in the remains of his conspirators, conjured up a handful of something dark and hot, leaned close enough that the heat made him sweat more than he already was.

“You fuck this up and I will make you _beg_ for death,” she hissed, and he gulped, his hands trembling while he worked.

It didn't take long. Carver woke up coughing and cursing. “Get out of my—what? Where am I?” He sat up, groggily swinging his arms like he was still fighting, and Hawke gave a relieved sigh and sat back on her heels, shaking out the fire. Carver looked around wildly, lost; took in his sister, turned his head and looked at Scarlet and made a noise of shock. He reached out and grabbed her arm if to see if she was real. “I saw you _die.”_

“Surprise,” she said weakly, and he coughed again and dropped his hand.

“I thought you were better than this,” Hawke said lightly, though she had to wipe her cheeks. “A couple of lousy Templars and you're down.”

“I had no reason to believe they'd turn on me,” Carver said to his sister, as between them she and Scarlet helped him stand. “Thank you, sister. It seems I am again in your debt, and shadow.”

“More Templars coming,” the dwarf reported from his spot on the rock. “Looks like Samson and Cullen.”

“Andraste's _tits._ We're leaving,” Scarlet said.

“Agreed,” Carver said.

“We'll handle this. Meet us back at the estate,” Hawke said, in a tone that would brook no arguing. Scarlet glanced at Carver; he scowled.

“That's where the others will be coming, you have a better idea?” she said.

“Oh, _fine.”_

Scarlet cast a glance back towards where Grace's body lay. “Can you hang on a minute?”

Grace's eyes were open—Scarlet closed them, hoping that she was with Decimus now, wherever they were, wondering how the Maker's heaven treated blood mages. She'd find out eventually. _I'm sorry, you bitch._ She thought for a minute—but she couldn't carry Grace and support Carver. And she was not in a hurry to meet Cullen again. And her orders were very clear. So for the second time in her life, she turned and walked away, leaving Grace to the Kirkwall Templars.

“You alright?” she asked as she joined Carver again, slinging his arm over her shoulders (she “oof”ed a bit, having forgotten how heavy he was, but they'd make it).

“Fine. That was your friend.” It wasn't necessarily a question.

“Yep.”

“You alright?”

“Fine.”

\---

The Kirkwall party caught up with them soon, which was good, because despite his protests that he was fine, Carver passed out again before they got anywhere near the city. One minute he was walking, the next he was collapsing, and when Scarlet tried to catch him she wound up trapped instead. No amount of swearing or shoving did any good, and finally she gave up, dug around in his pockets and pouches until she found some ancient, slightly dusty strips of jerky, and chewed them irritably while she waited. When the others came around the bend Scarlet just looked up and shrugged at them, and Hawke laughed until tears streamed down her face.

Hawke had Fenris and Aveline bring him upstairs at the estate, “To his room,” though she added “He might as well sleep there once, at least,” with a sardonic edge to her voice. Anders stayed for a minute to ask about the spell that Alain had done, and suddenly Scarlet remembered why she knew him. “Then he used the fourth—oh Maker's tits, _Anders_ , I barely recognized you!”

“Finally,” he said with a twisted smile, “I wondered when you'd put that together.”

“Sorry, it's been so long—wait, you're _here_? Have you gone completely out of your mind? I thought you wanted to escape, not--”

“We can talk later,” he interrupted, “finish what you were saying.”

He went up to see to the patient as the other Wardens arrived. Scarlet stayed downstairs to debrief with them. The Templar Order had been less than helpful; apparently no one higher than a Knight-Lieutenant could be bothered to speak with them, or was even in residence, and the Knight-Lieutenant tried to have them physically thrown out. Words were said, weapons had been drawn, then Meren arrived and an incredibly unfortunate (but doubtless really exciting) international incident was avoided. Aveline took their statements and left to file a formal complaint just as Hawke came down from seeing her brother and asked them all to stay overnight so nicely she was basically begging, and Meren was hard-pressed to say no to an offer of free room and board in the nicest accommodations they'd have for months. Hawke and a servant brought out armloads of linens, pillows, and blankets to set up on the plush carpet near one of the palatial fireplaces.

“Can we have another pillow?” Scarlet asked. “Or did I miss one? I count only four.”

“We can share if there's not enough,” Howe said.

“The devil we can,” said Sant Biçente, looking shocked.

“Oh,” Marion said, looking at her and then in the general direction of the upstairs. “I thought--” She suddenly looked just the same way Carver did when he was realizing something. “I'll get you one.”

Scarlet went upstairs after that to check on Carver and Anders. Carver was still out, flopped diagonally across the bed; whatever spell Grace had used to put him under, the effects were lingering, but his vitals were strong, his breathing was fine, he wasn't running a fever anymore, he'd been lucid enough before he passed out. Anders seemed reassured by what he was seeing.

“You'll be pleased to know your sweetheart will be alright.” He took a little blood from Carver's arm and eyeballed it. “Want to have a look?”

“Hang on,” Scarlet said. “We're not.”

“Really? Blue eyes, emotional range of a teaspoon? That was just your type.”

“Very funny.”

“He'll still be alright. Although I really thought--”

“Did you know Warden Holzer? Out of Cumberland? I think she joined before you left,” she asked, trying to change the subject. Anders thought for a minute, then nodded.

“A bit intense, wasn't she? Blonde hair, didn't smile much.”

“That's her. We once spent all night debating the line between healing magics and blood magic. Eventually decided the line doesn't really exist.”

“Oh come now, you know that's ridiculous.”

“Really? So then why can't mages cast near someone who's given them a transfusion for an entire lunar cycle?”

“Because the lingering magics can cause the blood to try to rejoin its original host--”

“Right, that's blood sacrifice in reverse.”

Anders scowled. “I prefer to think a little better of my chosen profession.”

She glanced at him and wondered when he'd got so sanctimonious—and sad—but let it go. Carver was probably going to be ok, so she grabbed Anders by the arm and propelled him to the far side of the room.

“Look,” she whispered, “we need to talk about your manifesto.”

“You read it?”

“Pretending to be modest doesn't suit you. You're doing something.” He nodded and started to speak; she shook her head. “Don't. I can't—don't tell me. Tell me something I can do that won't get traced back to the Wardens.”

“The Mage Underground. You travel a lot, we could use your help there.”

“I can't escort anyone without raising too many questions.”

“No, of course not. I'll talk with the others while you're gone, see what we can come up with. Maybe better maps, or trails, or supply drops or something.”

“I'll speak to you when we get back, then.”

He nodded, clasped her hand. “Thank you.”

She nodded, took a second to panic about what she had just committed to and how far this would go before everything went to hell, then forcefully put all that aside. “By the way, I think I died, do I need an exam or anything?”

“Died?” Anders put on a serious face seemingly universal to all healers, picked up her wrist and checked her pulse while pressing the back of his other hand to her forehead. “What happened?” She dug the crystal out from under her tunic and he relaxed. “Oh, you should be fine. Do you have any double vision or shortness of breath?”

“No.”

He dropped his hands and nodded. “Well then keep an eye out for the usual and avoid shellfish.”

“Why shellfish?”

“Because they're disgusting.”

“Where am I?”

Anders rolled his eyes. “That's my cue.”

He left, and Scarlet almost followed, except that Carver was sitting up, looking around in confusion. She thought it would probably be rude to just leave him there, so she walked a little ways over, stopped about halfway across the room. Anders had found it necessary to strip the patient to the waist. Wonderful.

“Your sister said this was your room.”

He snorted. “Never slept here a day in my life.”

“She said that too.”

“What happened? I saw you--” he swallowed, “I thought I saw you die, although I guess not.”

“Well it turns out,” she held up the broken crystal again, “this was a lifeward amulet, so...I owe you.”

He swung his legs over onto the floor and stood up, stretched ( _Maker's tits_ ). “You just rescued me, I think we're even.”

“That was your sister,” Scarlet said, busying herself with her necklace. Carver grunted, reached for his shirt, draped over the back of a chair.

“Don't remind me.”

“What's the problem there? She cares about you, that's painfully obvious.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Fine, don't. Dinner should be happening soon, if you're feeling better I'll see you downstairs,” she said, and turned to go.

“You still wear that, though?” he asked.

“Just because it's not going to save my life again doesn't mean it's not pretty.”

“I mean before.”

She turned around sharply. “You didn't want it back, if you'll recall.”

“I was just wondering,” he said, a little taken aback.

“Anyway, your sister seems to think we're still sleeping together, which I'd actually meant to ask you about.”

Carver flushed. “I didn't--she jumped to conclusions. Since our mother died my sister has taken up the duty of harping at me to settle down.”

If this conversation got any more desperately awkward she was going to burst into flames. “Oh wonderful. Perfect. I'll see you downstairs,” she said, and turned to go again.

“Hang on.” He took several steps towards her. “Can we talk?”

“We are talking,” she mumbled.

“I mean specifically--”

“Put your shirt on first, for fuck's sake.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He did so, awkwardly, and Scarlet crossed her arms and waited. “I'm glad you're not dead,” he said after a minute.

“Me too. Thanks again, I owe you.”

“No you don't.”

“Alright, I don't,” she said, trying for levity but failing. He didn't say anything for a while, and finally she said, “I'll see you downstairs,” and turned and left.

\---

Scarlet had a glass of wine and a hot bath in a bathtub the size of a barn, during which she could coat herself in sweet-smelling soaps, get all the blood out of her hair, and weep wholeheartedly with no one to hear except Mabarki, who had decided he was her bath time guardian, and licked her face clean of tears so that she had to wash it again. At least she'd quit bleeding. She considered for a time, then decided to thank Grace for that, and drained her glass and started to cry again.

“A lot you know,” she said to Mabarki, and he gave a solemn nod, as if to say “Yes, squishy human friend, I do know a lot.”

She eventually dragged herself from the tub, dressed in some clothes borrowed from Marion, who had sent out the Warden's things for washing and mending, and tagged Cyv in as she left the bathroom.

“I'm never getting out,” Cyv said. “You can all go to the Deep Roads without me. That's right, my perfect pooch, we're staying here forever!” Mabarki gave a happy bark. For all he pretended to hate baths, he spent a lot of time around bathing people.

The rest of the evening went very well indeed. The elder Hawke was obviously so happy to have Carver home, and she and Anders were so obviously in love, and the wine was _so_ good, and it was so good to sit in a chair again, that Scarlet could forget for a while that she was still in Kirkwall, if nothing else. The huge amount of food and booze already going around the parlor didn't hurt.

“What's your dog's name?” Scarlet asked as the Hawkes' mabari trotted over with yet another tray of pre-dinner appetizers balanced on his head. She took one and thanked him gravely.

“His full title is Lord Floofington the Second, of the Ancient and Noble House of Floof,” Marion said, at which Scarlet gave a delighted laugh. “We call him Floofy for short.”

“My younger sister had a nug named Magister Pickles,” Meren said, to more general mirth. “But then, she was eight.”

“Carver was about that age when he named the original Lord Floofington.”

“It was Bethany!” he protested.

“Yes, you were were both about eight when you bestowed that name upon our family's original mabari.”

“Such grand ideas for such a young boy,” Anders put in, deep into a bottle of brandy, which he was drinking with a straw.

“How old were you when you named Ser Pounce-a-Lot, Anders?” Howe asked. Anders coughed on his drink and changed the subject.

“Speaking of, heard from Tabris lately?”

Howe was lounging with his head in Sant Biçente's lap and his legs dangling off the end of the couch as he tossed cinnamon almonds in the air for Sant Biçente to catch in his mouth, and he smiled fondly. “A couple of months ago. Has another crazy scheme in mind. It'll probably work out, most everything she tries does. Said to tell you hello if I ever saw you, so...hello.”

“Wait a minute,” Sant Biçente said, looking down at Howe with an expression of shock and betrayal and not appearing to notice when an almond hit him in the nose. “Tabris? You know the Hero of Ferelden?”

“She recruited me. Him too,” he said, jerking his thumb at Anders.

“'Recruited' is a pretty tame word for what Tabris did to us,” Anders said cheerfully.

“And you didn't _tell_ me?” Sant Biçente said.

“Cyvren is going to kill you if she ever gets out of the bath, she worships that woman,” Scarlet put in.

Howe sat up. “I thought you all knew?” he said, looking genuinely baffled.

“How were we supposed to know if you didn't tell us? What's she like?” Meren asked.

“Funny,” Anders said.

“Impossibly kind,” Howe said. “Terrible temper, though. You should have seen the way she and Valenna used to fight.”

“Head over heels in love with the second biggest idiot in the Grey Wardens,” Anders added.

“Come on,” Howe said. “Alistair is a good man.”

“Wait a minute, who's the first?” Sant Biçente asked.

“Alistair is a _great_ man,” Carver interrupted, glaring at Anders, who snorted.

“I didn't say he wasn't--”

“Dinner,” Marion broke in. “Before you two kill each other and spoil my appetite.”

They were heading into the dining room when the tiny elf woman came tearing in, barefoot and sliding on the floor, carrying a bouquet of flowers larger than her whole torso. “Am I late? I wanted to pick up something to celebrate.”

“No, Merrill, you're just in time,” Marion said cheerfully as Merrill ran to Carver and gave him a huge hug. She was definitely adorable, and he definitely blushed when she hugged him, and Scarlet definitely had to suppress a sudden and _dumb_ surge of jealousy.

“I'm going to go get Cyv,” she said to Sant Biçente, and skirted around the crowd to head for the staircase. She could still hear them talking.

“I'm so glad you're alright.”

“Good to see you too, Merrill.”

“We were so worried, weren't we Hawke?”

“That we were.” Marion sounded amused. “You're staying for dinner, right?”

“Ooh, is there enough room?”

“You don't take up that much space,” Marion said, and then Scarlet turned the corner and couldn't hear anymore. She knocked on the door to the bathroom and heard Cyv say “Piss off, I'm not coming out.”

“Well then I'm eating your dinner,” Scarlet said. “We're having leg of lamb.” There was a pause, then the sound of splashing and the pattering of feet. Cyv threw open the door, totally and gloriously naked, Mabarki behind her covered in bubbles.

“Did you say leg of lamb?”

Scarlet nodded, lowered her voice and very pointedly only looked at her eyes. “There's also a really beautiful lady elf who's just come by, but you didn't hear it from me,” she said, and Cyv wriggled with joy.

“I'll be down in five minutes. Keep your hands off!” she yelled, and slammed the door shut without specifying whether she meant the lamb or the elf.

She swept downstairs a few minutes later, wearing a pair of silk pajamas loaned to her by Marion, and though they were too big she wore them as well as she wore everything, and with her hair piled up on top of her head and her cheeks still flushed from the bath she looked staggeringly lovely. She sat next to Scarlet, right across from Merrill, to whom she directed her most winning smile and said “ _Aneth ara,_ my friend. I'm Cyvren, I don't think we've met.” It was only a matter of time after that before Merrill and Scarlet switched seats, and by the time dessert came the two elves were braiding flowers into each others' hair, chattering away, and feeding each other bits of cake.

“Deftly handled,” Sant Biçente said to Scarlet in slurry Orlesian, refilling his glass out of what had to have been his third bottle of wine since they moved into the dining room.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she replied in kind. The look he gave her was knowing enough that she could feel herself blushing.

“Marrak,” he said, leaning over, and refilled her glass without asking, not that she minded, “We only have so much time. Whatever is or isn't going on there, it doesn't matter, I don't care, but it's high time you were at least regularly getting the kind of service” (the term was so filthy she elbowed him reflexively) “you deserve. Frankly it's depressing to see you moping around like a puppy dog every time the village idiot gets frightened of your little lightning thing. In some circles people pay good money for that sort of treatment.” He wiggled his fingers at her until she giggled.

“You would have paid? I wish I'd known that before.”

“Oh I wouldn't have, you were _dying_ to give away the milk,” he said airily, and she gasped, fluttering her napkin in front of her face like a shocked dowager.

“You drunken reprobate! _”_

“Yes, madame, we are very much alike in that respect.”

“I am _not_ drunk, how dare you.”

“No, you passed drunk a long time ago. And also, unrelated, when do I get a stupid pet name?”

“When I think of how to rearrange your surname. I still can't get my tongue around it half the time.” This turn of phrase made them both snicker.

“Now I don't want one. I'm going to think fond and dirty things about the struggles of your tongue every time you say my name.” They both laughed at that, so loudly that Meren eventually asked what was funny.

“They are both children,” Howe said dryly, from Sant Biçente's other side, which just made Scarlet laugh harder, and Sant Biçente turn and give him a dramatic, swooping kiss that he was happy enough to return, childish sense of humor or no.

Eventually the party broke up when Cyv went home with Merrill, under the guise of “getting some fresh air” that necessitated them stopping at least once in the hallway to kiss each other passionately. They took Mabarki, which was totally reasonable but nevertheless left Scarlet feeling a little alone as the Wardens hunkered down and everyone else went upstairs.

She couldn't sleep. The Hawke estate was defensible for all its beauty, and more than one apostate was living here safe and secure, there must be ways out just in case, but the walls kept trying to close in on her even in the spacious room where they were all bedded down. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Grace's dead eyes staring at her accusingly, felt her own blood turning against her. She turned over, staring at her companions. Meren was sprawled out on the couch. Howe and Sant Biçente had fallen asleep in each other's arms—on one pillow, even. Carver was--Cyv was hopefully having a great time.

The clock struck midnight, and she gave up. She got up, walked upstairs, telling herself she intended to sit by the smaller fire there and read. She paused near the top of the stairs when she heard voices. The Hawkes were sitting on the rug by the fire, passing a mug back and forth and petting the sleeping mabari between them, and she was forcefully reminded of the way she and Rose had done likewise when they were kids and had a passel of cats. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she could hear quiet laughter, and and it didn't seem like they noticed her, so she paused for a second, debating her options. In the end she went back downstairs, stole the pillow Sant Biçente wasn't using, and clung to it and the memory of Rose like a talisman.

It helped. And eventually she slept.

They left a lot later than they'd intended the next day, because it turned out to be a lot easier to lay around when you were sleeping on a soft rug inside a comfortable house, and a lot harder to quit eating breakfast when breakfast just kept coming until it eventually turned into lunch. Scarlet kept herself busy catching up with Anders (not just to avoid Carver, who kept trying to catch her alone, but it was effective nonetheless), and when the Wardens finally tore themselves away, packed up, and headed out, she was more relieved than she wanted to admit. Marion hugged Carver so hard he grunted, and if he didn't exactly seem thrilled, he did hug her back.

“We'll swing back this way when we're done down below,” Scarlet said. Anders nodded.

“I've got ideas, but I'll need to confirm some things. I know you're going into hell right now, but if you have time to put a little thought into what and where you anticipate being in the next few months, that would be helpful.”

“I can't promise anything, but I'll try.”

“That's all we ask right now.”

Marion said goodbye to them all in turn, and it was taking a while until she said to Scarlet “I'm sorry we didn't get to talk more, I've heard so much about--” and Carver interrupted “We really need to go,” and all but shoved the rest of them out the door despite Anders' laughter. 


	16. Chapter 16

Before they went into the caves that would eventually lead to the Deep Roads, Scarlet took a long moment to look up at the sky. She could barely see it through the trees, but she fixed her gaze on the little patch of blue, took a deep breath of fresh, free air, held it in her lungs until she could imagine it permeating every part of her body, storing it up.

Every Warden had a ritual before entering the Deep Roads for a long time. Sant Biçente took a long, leisurely piss against a tree (“Pissing on trees is the most singular of the masculine pleasures,” he'd said once, and she had no reason to doubt him). Howe collected whetstones like they were going out of style, never mind that he didn't use them for anything. Carver rubbed dirt into his hands and obsessively sharpened his sword, Cyv wrapped a bundle of fragrant pine needles in ribbon and tucked it deep into her pack, Meren chanted what sounded like a marching song under his breath as they walked (“What's that?” Carver asked. “Legion of the Dead,” Meren answered, and no one asked anything further). Scarlet just breathed and looked at the sky. Rose had done the same thing, which is where she picked it up (“Might be the last time, you never know,” she had said, but it hadn't seemed real because they had never been down there before).

“Well, that's that,” Meren said. “I don't have any inspiring speeches, Wardens. Let's get in, do what we came here to do, and get out again.”

They went in.


	17. Chapter 17

The Harrowing Chamber was hot. The older mages always warned you, but Scarlet hadn’t expected to be sticky with sweat as well as fear. She noticed something wrong as soon as she stepped into the room, but it took her a minute to realize what--there was no lyrium vessel. “Poor child,” Irving said sadly, as a Templar came out of nowhere to loom over her, the brand smoking in his hand--

Scarlet woke up with a booted foot digging into her side (the good thing about being surrounded by people who were also prone to nightmares is that somebody would wake you up when yours got really bad). Whose foot she couldn’t have said--there were a lot of people trying to sleep in a dark, fairly cramped space--but she squeezed it in thanks as she sat up, extracting herself from the bedroll. Harrowing nightmares. _Great_. She had passed her fucking Harrowing, and just once it would be nice to dream about  _that_. She didn't think she was getting back to sleep, and somebody was snoring, so she got up, stepping over two other pairs of legs to get to her gear. Cyv was on watch, sitting a little ways away, Mabarki laying at her feet with his head in her lap, and as Scarlet picked up her staff and her bottle and shuffled over to her, she reflected on how very much she hated the Deep Roads.

The worst thing was how it wasn't that bad. Oh sure, it was disgusting, and unimaginable horror lurked around every corner and in every part of your mind, and it smelled like nothing in this world, and you were stuck eating the most leathery trail rations, and you'd always wind up with a rock under your bedroll, and you couldn't see the sun or breathe fresh air or pee without worrying you were going to get stabbed in the back or get clean or sleep more than a few hours or know exactly how long you'd been down there, and you were actively shortening your already-short life every moment you spent underground, but for all that, there was always an undercurrent of...rightness. A Grey Warden, at his or her very core, was most at home in the Deep Roads, surrounded by corruption and blight, and Scarlet hated it.  
  
To be specific, she hated how much she didn't hate it. She found it comforting. When the end came she'd be returning to a place that felt more like home than anything since she was a child, and she _hated_ that. She sat down next to Cyv on the little stone bench, took a long drink (“Vintage: Warden Marrak. There is definitely blood in this”), and tried not to think about it.  
  
“‘Morning,” Cyv said with such certainty that Scarlet was surprised.

“Is it?”

“Fuck if I know. You here to relieve me?”

“I can if you want.”

Cyv shrugged, looked down at the giant dog drooling on her legs with a fond smile. “Don’t want to move Mabarki.” Mabarki gave a great snore. Scarlet shifted, picked up her staff and set it across her lap.

“You still have my pencil?”

Cyv dug it out of her pouch and handed it over, and Scarlet rubbed her sleeve over the spot she’d finally chosen--towards the top, just underneath the stormheart griffin’s left talon--for the design she’d settled on. One large griffin feather with two smaller ones, almost identical but not quite, one on either side. Simple. Room for embellishment, later. If she wanted. She conjured up a little ball of light, tossed it into the air to hover over them, and got to work.

For a while they sat together without talking. The Deep Roads were never quiet, though. Every sound, every breath, the noise every time somebody turned over, even sounds that didn't exist echoed in the impossibly cavernous space, and the scratching of Scarlet's pencil sounded like a thousand insects skittering on the wall behind them (she glanced behind her a few times, just in case). She was struggling to get the details right—she wanted the smaller feathers to be almost identical but not quite, her pencil wasn’t very sharp, and her light kept bobbling in a breeze that shouldn't have existed but did anyway--but it’s not like she had anything else to do right now, so she bent closer and kept at it.

"You remember how Hacks used to let Rose ride around on his shoulders when she would complain about being short?" she asked. Cyv laughed. 

"I do remember that. She really had him wrapped around her finger, didn't she?" She sighed. "Creators, I miss them."  
  
“Me too. I kind of thought...he'd have longer,” she said, unable to stop the words falling out of her mouth. Cyv shifted, slung an arm around her shoulders.  
  
“Sometimes a really bad injury will...speed things along.”  
  
“I'd never heard that.”  
  
“Not everyone believes it, but I know what I've seen.”  
  
“We should study this more.”  
  
“We should do a lot of things more, but with what people? And you need mages for some of that stuff anyway. Or at least people who can read.”

“It would be nice to have more. We could specialize, you know? Holzer should be in research full time—she's absolutely brilliant, I can't comprehend half of what she's thinking about, if we gave her the time and tools she'd probably figure out how to stop the Blight before it even starts. And how to let us have children again.”  
  
“You suddenly decide you want kids?” Cyv said, surprised.  
  
“Hacks did. So did Rose. It was just never an option for me is all. What about you?”  
  
Cyv was quiet for a minute. “I can't imagine bringing an elven child in this world regardless of any other circumstances,” she said slowly. “That my parents did baffles me.”  
  
“I'm glad they did,” Scarlet offered.  
  
“I appreciate that, but I can't for the life of me understand. What were they thinking?” Her voice was still even, but it had changed, somehow, grown softer, grown younger. “I mean, they couldn't have realized…”  
  
“You remember them at all?”

“A little. I was only six or seven.”

“What do you remember?”

Cyv let go of Scarlet, folded her hands in her lap, looked down at them. “The smell of pine needles. Snatches of things they said--I remember overhearing a story about Garahal’s Grey Warden stamina that was not meant for kids. My mother sang a lot. She had a pretty voice. Our house had two doors, and one of them, I think the back door, was blue. I think that's what I'm most angry about.” (Scarlet held her breath; this was the most Cyv had ever told her about her family.) “That's all I'll ever know about them. I don't remember their names, or where we lived, or what they looked like, or _anything._  All my cousins? Not actually related. Tillahanen isn't even my real name. I made it up. Squashed it together from a couple of the folks who helped me on the way south.” She leaned forward and rubbed the bridge of her nose, usually a sign of one of the headaches that had plagued her since her head injury. Scarlet waited, just in case, but after a long minute it became clear that part of the conversation was over.  
  
“Headache?” she asked. Cyv nodded. “You want a cold compress?”  
  
“Don't waste your power on me.”  
  
“It's not a waste,” Scarlet said softly.  
  
Cyv considered this for a minute, then nodded again. “That'd be great, thanks.”  
  
Scarlet let a little chill creep into her hands, then a little more, leaned over, and pressed them gently to her temples, wrapping her fingers around her forehead. Cyv wasn't always keen on this, but had said the smell of magic was drowned out by the other interesting/terrible smells in the Deep Roads, and she relaxed a bit under her hands.  
  
“I feel like a really awkward pair of earmuffs.”  
  
“Don't be absurd, you're a very graceful pair of earmuffs.” Mabarki rolled over in his sleep, kicked his front paws like he was running, and growled a little. Cyv put a soothing hand on his head until he calmed. “Speaking of kids, I gotta find Mabarki a ladyfriend when we're topside again. You need a mabari so you'll stop trying to steal mine.”  
  
“I would never,” Scarlet said, despite having spent his entire life trying to do just that. Cyv snorted. “I'm pretty sure nobody could steal anyone's love from you, anyway. You're the most lovable creature in this world, and I'm including baby bunnies and old ladies who bake great cakes in that list.”  
  
Cyv giggled. “You spoil me for other women, you know.”  
  
“Next time you want to get serious about someone I'll write them a list of compliments.”  
  
“Make sure to include lots about my eyes, I don't hear enough about them.”  
  
“Starlight, moonlight, gems, or the ocean?”  
  
“Dealer's choice.”  
  
“Perfect, I dislike a leash on my creative spirit.”  
  
“Would you two flirt more quietly so I can sleep?” Sant Biçente grumbled from his bedroll.  
  
“Oh, like you're actually sleeping,” Cyv shot back.  
  
“I was,” he said, so indignantly that Scarlet clamped her hands over her mouth and doubled over, shaking with suppressed laughter. This woke up Mabarki, who gave a long low whine and tried to scramble into Cyv's lap.  
  
“You ridiculous beast,” she hissed as she toppled over into Scarlet, who stifled a yelp and braced the end of her staff on the wall to keep them all upright. “You're not a lap dog, you're a fearsome war hound!” The fearsome war hound, who outweighed his mistress by at least 100 pounds, put his massive paws on her shoulders, shoved his massive face under her chin, and nuzzled her face like a puppy, and Cyv said “oof” and wrapped her arms around his massive haunches. “Oh fine, you can stay. You perfect dog, I love you so much.” Most dogs of this breed didn't have much of a tail. Mabarki compensated by wagging his entire hindquarters.  
  
Scarlet leaned her cheek on Cyv's shoulder, reached around to scratch Mabarki behind the ears so that he redoubled his wagging and they all almost fell over again. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she closed them against a mixture of contentment and sorrow. “How long since your Joining?”  
  
“Been about nine years. I've got plenty left,” she said, her hand finding Scarlet's on Mabarki's head, “don't start mourning me yet.”  
  
“I'll need some time to figure out how to get by without you.”  
  
“ _Though the darkness calls me down, you know we all are dying_ .” She sang this so quietly Scarlet barely heard her. If she didn't know _Shred of Blue_ like the back of her hand, she would have missed it.  
  
“Well. When you put it like that.”  
  
They never told you that finding comfort in the thought of your own death would be a side-effect of the Joining Ritual, but then, they didn't tell you a lot about the Joining Ritual.  
  
(“You think you'll go with someone?”  
  
Holzer did not stop peering at the ancient scroll she was copying. “I do not believe so.”  
  
“I just don't know how far I'd get alone, you know? Plus I hate being by myself. Thought I might put together...a little party, I guess.”  
  
“I intend to allow myself to become an abomination before the end.” Scarlet must have made a noise, because Holzer looked up at her, and she seemed less calm than usual. “The practice is not uncommon. It's the most effective—mages cannot always—I can point you to some relevant texts debating the merits if you'd like.”)  
  
Suddenly Cyv looked up as Mabarki leapt off her lap, his hackles raised. Cyv lifted a hand and made the signal that meant “Do you hear that?”  
  
Scarlet tilted her head, didn't hear anything out of the ordinary, but Meren suddenly appeared at their elbow, his bow strung, alert. He and Cyv exchanged glances and Scarlet snuffed out the light, plunging them into darkness except for the fiery glow perpetually filtering up from the magma. It didn't take long for her eyes to adjust, but by then Meren, Cyv, and Mabarki were so far ahead of her she couldn't even see them anymore. She stood up quietly and waited, holding her staff, trying to hear whatever it is they'd heard. She only really heard the sounds of the others getting up (quieter than she could do anything, even with all that armor. “Least sneaky person I've ever met” indeed), and the weird false echoes of the Deep Roads, the constant whispering in her head, and the banging of her heart against her ribs.  
  
Cyv slipped back into view, made a couple of signs. Darkspawn, at least a couple dozen, all together, heading this way. She indicated direction, formation information. Scarlet could tell where the darkspawn were now—could hear them in her head like they were talking directly to her. The darkspawn knew they were there, too. They'd be here in a minute. She glanced behind her, passed the signal along. Carver and Sant Biçente edged past her; she fell into step next to Howe. His bow was drawn; the lyrium in her ring hummed in her head, responding to the magic building in her hands, mixing with the babble of the darkspawn. It all sounded an awful lot like music sometimes.

“If we ever get a decent night's sleep in this shithole it will be a  _certified fucking miracle_ ,” Sant Biçente yelled a few minutes later, as he spun around and sliced off a genlock's head. Scarlet mentally awarded him two points plus one extra for panache (he often won on style, never mind that she was the only one keeping score), refreshed barriers all over the field, crushed a deepstalker's head under her heel (half a point), wiped the sweat out of her eyes. Her back was to the wall, and she leaned against it just for a minute as she surveyed the battle. They were in a standard triangle with the two archers at the other points, the swords in the middle drawing attention, Mabarki darting around keeping the darkspawn contained within the formation, and Cyv flying across the battlefield, having been launched through the air off Carver’s shoulders, to skewer a hurlock through the back of the head (Scarlet considered, then gave them each five points for that). The darkspawn were under control, Meren was picking off the deepstalkers one by one (or sometimes more than one. They might have kebabs for breakfast. Better than trail rations). She knew better than to hope for a challenge, but Andraste's ashes, she was bored. She was tired, and filthy, and desperately sad, and  _bored_. This Maker-forsaken mission had been going on for too damn long, and she wanted it finished.

Nobody was getting back to sleep after that, and it wasn't like there were natural cycles of night and day to worry about down there, so after mopping up they packed and moved on. No real injuries, except to patience.

They were getting closer, at least. 

She fell into step next to Carver as they moved off. It was darker here, the way more winding, the path strewn with loose debris; she started up a light at the end of her staff so they could all see where they were going. He gave her a sideways glance and then pointed, eyebrows raised in the Warden-wide symbol for _you're bleeding._ She dragged her sleeve across her throat and it came away red and sticky; scowling, she dug into the larger of the pouches at her hip for the half-empty healing potion she had taken to using like a poultice to close up minor wounds. “Darkspawn have no respect for personal space,” she muttered, and he grinned, and for just a second she was reminded how much she liked it when he grinned down at her like that--

“Cut the chatter, Wardens,” Meren sent back, voice low.

“Sorry boss.” She smeared some potion on her neck, making a wider circuit than she thought she needed, looked at Carver for confirmation since she still had no feeling in most of her throat. He glanced at the results, nodded. Scarlet made a gesture of thanks and fell back.

Soon their route took them into a cramped series of winding tunnels, so narrow they had to go single-file and with a ceiling so short Scarlet was forced to stoop (anyone taller than her was bent almost double. She decided the view was worth their inconvenience). How long or how far they'd gone, she couldn't say, but Meren somehow knew where they were going. They passed untold forks, crossed through multiple intersections and junctures, Meren consulting his maps and occasionally giving an irritated mutter. They had only doubled back once over the last weeks, and for this long in the Deep Roads that was a damned record.

Something was bothering Scarlet. Other than the darkspawn. And the dual gnaw of grief and guilt. And her increasingly sweaty feet. Something new and different: a persistent, nagging sense that there was something important she'd forgotten, and that it was just around the corner. Her ring, she noticed with sudden clarity, was pulsing again, there on her left hand, _exactly_ opposite her own pulse point, like she had two heartbeats. She tried to squirm it off with her other fingers, because she did not have the mental energy to devote to being distracted by this now. It wouldn't budge. In fairness, it had been a while since she'd taken it off. She stuck her finger in her mouth, pulled at the ring with her teeth, and was making some progress as they emerged from the tunnels into another open space, this one probably forty yards across and lit from below again. They stopped near a little divot in the wall that gave some cover, and there was quiet discussion about their next move--now that her adrenaline had worn off she hoped, but didn't expect, that it would include taking a nap—as she hung back by the wall and snuffed out her now-unnecessary light.

“We break here,” Meren announced. “I'm going to have a look around. Keep the noise to a minimum. Howe, take watch.” Surprised and grateful, Scarlet dropped her pack, sat down, and was spinning her ring around in a vain attempt to squirrel it past her knuckle when Cyv appeared beside her out of nowhere and she had to bite back a startled curse.

“Hungry?” Cyv whispered, as though their chat from before hadn't been interrupted by those pesky darkspawn and hours of marching. Scarlet nodded. Cyv sat just across from her, produced a fistful of trail rations and doled them out, and Scarlet gnawed on hers as she dug through the bottom of her pack for the tiny pot of hand cream she hoped she had remembered this time (another thing that was terrible about the Deep Roads: the dry heat led to dry, itchy skin). “Hope we finish down here soon.”

“Agreed.” She heard footsteps behind her—light, quiet footsteps—and glanced back, expecting Howe—but no, he was ahead of them. There was nobody and nothing behind her but _rock_ . Fucking Deep Roads. She swallowed a hunk of trail rations, finally found the tiny jar of cream, and slicked a bit of it under the _stupid_ Ring of Study she kept wearing for some _stupid_ reason--maybe to remind herself of her failures, or to lend credence to the nightmares that she was back in the Gallows, or just to look pretty and mysterious when she waved her hands around by candlelight. She couldn't say. It didn't matter. She wanted it off, and it wouldn't budge, even when greased.

“Problem?” Cyv asked quietly.

Scarlet snarled and gave up. “When did my fingers get so fat?”

“Too much salt, or are should we expect some little Marraks running around soon?”

Scarlet threw a trail ration at her. Cyv ducked, and it sailed over her head, hit Carver in the cheek as he sat down a little ways away. He caught it before it hit the ground, stuffed it into his mouth without hesitating, and when that seemed funny enough that she giggled, it occurred to her that she was probably tired and should try to get some sleep. But then she heard footsteps again, coming from the left, inside the tunnels they'd just come from, and she turned to look. Hacks had gone on and on about not letting the Deep Roads get to you (“Be vigilant, not stupid,”) but she heard something. She _heard something._

“I hear something." Her ring throbbed gently.

Cyv tilted her head, listened for a minute. “You sure?”

“Yes.“ She hadn’t been sure at first, but there it was again--she _heard_ it, she heard footsteps. And furthermore she heard someone whispering, the sound bouncing off the walls. She stood up, hoisted her staff, and stalked back towards the dark tunnels they'd just emerged from. Cyv was beside her in a second and grabbed her arm to stop her. She raised a hand, signalled “ _Stay here, I’ll check it out_ ,” and disappeared into the darkness. Scarlet waited, increasingly edgy, but Cyv came back a few minutes later and shrugged.

“Nothing there,” she said quietly.

“You sure?”

“Yes. It turns out I’m good at what I do. Get some rest, we’re both getting jumpy,” she said, and physically manhandled Scarlet back to their gear. Scarlet punched her bedroll into some semblance of a pillow, stretched out, and tried to think about how much it stank down here rather than whatever it was she had forgotten.

The Templars stood in a circle around the podium where the lyrium vessel waited in the Harrowing Chamber at the top of Kinloch Hold, First Enchanter Irving on one side with a Templar next to him. The Templar lifted his helmet, and she expected Greagoir--but no, it wasn’t a Templar, it was _Rose_. When Scarlet looked at her in surprise she smiled and winked, and Scarlet realized she was dreaming. “Are you ready, child?” Irving asked. Scarlet opened her mouth to answer, but the only thing that came out was laughter and a _river_ of blood, pouring down her chin and chest, and as she laughed she reached out and ripped his soul from his body as easy as breathing. She turned on the Templars then, and the last thing she saw before she woke from the storm of chaos and slaughter up was her bloody hands locking around Rose’s throat as her sister’s dagger pierced her gut--

She woke up halfway across the room, staff in hand, near the other entrance, standing on her feet with no clear memory of how she’d got there or why. Carver was shoving her behind him, sword in hand, Meren was swearing behind her, there was a roar, and then an ogre came bounding out of the tunnels and they all had to fight again.

“ _Fuck_ the Deep Roads,” Meren grunted as the two of them fell back, Scarlet throwing up barriers left and right. She didn’t see the second ogre emerge so much as she felt the ground shake and heard the gleeful chatter of the genlocks that followed it (and Sant Biçente’s increasingly creative string of expletives). “Marrak, the right flank, stay out of the way, keep them distracted. Howe!” Meren was yelling, and Scarlet stopped listening to his instructions to everybody else as she ran off (she did hear him yell “Fuck the Deep Roads!” again), absently pummeled a couple of genlocks out of the way with _stonefist_ , then skidding to a halt when she got an acceptable distance away. She’d feel better if she could get her back to the wall, but for now she would settle for being outside the immediate charge range of the damn ogres, they were so _fast--_

She grinned, suddenly inspired, hoisted her staff, and yelled _“Hurry up!”_ A wave of energy spread from her staff, coating everything in greenish light. The world slowed to a crawl for the space of a heartbeat. When it was back to normal, all her people were moving unimaginably fast, and were mightily pleased about it if the various delighted exclamations were to be believed.

“I love when you do this!” Cyv crowed, speeding past. Scarlet took a second to be proud of herself. _Haste_ was taxing enough that she couldn’t keep it up forever, but it was pretty damn impressive while it lasted. Meanwhile, she began pulling the air molecules together, increasing their speed, rubbing them together. The air here was so hot and dry it was already crackling--a good storm would a least distract the damn genlocks--and this was going to be a _great_ storm. Except she never got to cast it, because something caught her eye and her ring pulsed so hard she felt it in her chest.

The magister was standing not far away, half hidden in the dark of the tunnel. He was nondescript. Average height. Their eyes met for two infinitely long seconds, and she knew. How she knew she couldn't have said, but she knew in her soul that he had worn this ring too, that he had taken it from Rose and been lucky enough to leave it in Tevinter before the Wardens got there three years ago. She  _knew_. He held his staff high over his head, and a spell came off it in waves, which she recognized even before she felt it try to snake past her barrier, trying to paralyze her even as it sought her veins. She swatted it away like Clarel had taught her, yelled "Better mages than you have tried!" and heaved all her gathered electricity at him so that he had to dive to the ground or get fried. She was dimly aware of someone bellowing in pain behind her, smelled blood splashing through the air, and shot out her right hand to refresh barriers without aiming even as she stalked towards the other mage, who was getting to his feet and gathering up the energy for something big. Scarlet got there first--she kicked his staff (his ludicrously, ostentatiously long staff, caked with blood) out of his hand, swung hers around and caught him with the blade just under his chin so he had to freeze, on his knees, barely balanced over the blade that would slice his throat if he so much as breathed. He flicked his gaze up towards her, and his fingers flexed, the dark spirals of power coiling around them, as if testing.

"Do it," she said softly. "I dare you."

The magic gathering in her other hand had no real shape or form--it was just power, directed by rage and grief and the unshakable knowledge that she was better than him, more powerful, had seen more and done more and was going to pour so much energy into his chest that there would be nothing left of him--

\--somebody behind her dispelled it and somebody else hit her with _petrify_. In a half a second of clarity brought on by surprise she thought _Well that's what I get for not watching my fucking back,_ and as Cyv gave an anguished cry, somebody else (maybe the first somebody) threw a hood over her head and yanked her backwards into the dark.

\---

Waking Cyv was the hardest part. She had passed out halfway through what they did to her ears. Scarlet had thought about letting her stay unconscious; it seemed kinder. On the other hand, though, Scarlet couldn’t figure out how they could get out of this cage on her own, so after she healed the other obvious wounds she woke her, and held her hair back with one hand while she threw up.

“Can you do something about--” Cyv ground out when she was done, gesturing at the sides of her head. Scarlet could not imagine how much pain she must have been in to request that. She considered what she knew of the anatomy of the elvish ear (basically nothing).

“I don’t know. I could do more damage than--”

“I’ll risk it.” With her own issues Scarlet had to really concentrate, and it took two tries, but when the spell passed over the mangled stumps on her head one at a time, Cyv’s face relaxed into lines of grim determination rather than agony. She nodded, squeezed Scarlet’s good hand. “What about you?”

“Later. Let's just get out of here.” Scarlet’s nose was broken, but noses were easy and she’d managed to get it fixed and was pretty sure it was straight enough. It was her hand that worried her. Between the accent and the struggle she hadn’t understood much of what the magister was saying, but she had caught “I want _that_ ,” and when her Ring of Study had refused to slide over her knuckle, someone had held her left arm on the ground and someone else had stomped on her hand until they could get the ring over the mess that had once been her fingers. Her hand looked like a flesh-colored glove full of pudding. She could have fixed it with a healing spell, but she didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about setting what remained of the bones, and if they healed without being properly set first...

(She supposed she should be thanking the Maker that she still had fingers, and that they hadn’t done  _more_ to hurt Cyv, and that they’d left them their clothes, but ‘gratitude’ wasn’t high on her list right now.)

Cyv ripped some strips from their shirts, bound up Scarlet’s hand in them (she gritted her teeth and fought the urge to black out), whipped up a makeshift sling, and they set to work.

They had basically nothing on them except what they’d been wearing under their uniforms--even their boots were gone. The corpses inside with them didn't render anything useful; most weren't even identifiable by race anymore. “Alright,” Cyv said, and sat down, and picked up her left foot, and as Scarlet watched, equally horrified and fascinated, she pulled two small steel pins from deep within the skin of her heel. “Can you hold the lock still?”

Scarlet held onto the lock with the hand that still worked, forced herself to concentrate on keeping watch for their captors rather than the agony in her her other hand. Cyv got to work on the lock. It was slow going. At one point they tried bending the bars, and then Cyv greased herself up with mud and tried wriggling between them, but to no avail. It was back to the lock. If it didn't work Scarlet had some ideas, but not many.

“Listen,” Cyv said from between gritted teeth. “We don’t make it out of here--”

“Shut up,” Scarlet said immediately.

“You promised me--”

“ _Shut up,”_ Scarlet repeated. Cyv held her breath, there was a tiny click, and the lock opened in her hand. The door of the-- _cage_ was still a little sticky. It took both of them shoving their shoulders against it to push it open, and its hinges shrieked, but they got out. Cyv scrambled over to a pile of rocks, hefted a couple of fist-sized ones and stuck them in her pockets. “Did you know how to get out of here?” she asked. Cyv nodded tightly.

There were only two ways out of this room. The magisters--“mages,” Cyv spat, “not every mage from the north is a magister, for fuck's sake”--and their thralls had gone one way. Cyv led them out the other.

They ran into resistance sooner rather than later, but they handled it. Cyv took one by surprise, smashing its head between her rocks, and Scarlet obliterated the other before it had time to notice. Casting offensively without a staff and with only one working hand was harder than it had any right to be, and sloppy and imprecise to boot—she had only meant to kill it, not turn it inside out--but it would have to do. One of the darkspawn had a short sword, which Cyv hefted with a grimace, and some kind of shoes, which were far too big for either of them. They also handled the others they encountered, whether guards or scouts, and slowly equipped themselves a little better. Finally they crouched together behind a rock, looking out into what appeared to be a large common chamber leftover from the dwarven glory days. “You're sure this is the way out?” Scarlet asked.

“The others are that way, can't you tell?”

Scarlet was still mastering the art of discerning Wardens from darkspawn, so no, she could not tell, not around the cacophony of the hivemind, the agony in her fingers, and everything calling to her from the Fade. The two of them hunkered down in a dark patch behind a convenient outcropping of rock, considering their options, watching when and where their enemies moved. The room was large and roughly oval-shaped, and their exit was at the far end. There were four people still in the room, mages (or amateur quarterstaff enthusiasts), all gathered around a desk approximately opposite of where the two Wardens huddled. One was reading, three were in discussion that Scarlet couldn't make out. There was another door behind the desk, through which a number of humans had gone a few minutes ago. It was still open, but they couldn't see what was going on through it.

It wasn't really what was on this side of the Veil that worried her, though. Earlier she had said that she could feel the things on the other side breathing down her neck, and that was not entirely metaphorical. It would only take one mage and barely any effort to bring them out.

Cyv was whispering under her breath. “ _If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight._ ”

Scarlet looked over at her, the blood and dirt and fresh wounds almost hiding her scars, the sharp narrowing of her weirdly shining eyes as she searched for options, the way her hands shook a little. “ _And others began to fashion spears and bows_ ,” Scarlet whispered, “ _from the branches of trees_ \--”

“-- _and girded themselves with bark and scraps torn from their sandals and dug pits in the earth--_ ”

“-- _with their hands_ ,” they finished together. Cyv nudged her, her face split in a proud grin. “‘Bout time some of you shemlen learned your Shartan.”

They looked out over the room again. There were a thousand voices in her head—hers, Rose's, Hacks', the darkspawn's, and everything calling out from the Fade. Some of those she didn't recognize, some she did, and one of them was terrifyingly, comfortingly familiar. When she turned her thoughts towards it she heard it give a long, low laugh. It would be so easy. “That disappearing thing you do,” she whispered, “how long can you keep it up?”

“If I don't attack? Indefinitely. Don't think I have time to teach you, though.”

“Do you trust me?”

Cyv didn't look at her, but her shoulders tensed. “I'm not leaving you here.”

“I'm not suggesting you leave me here, I'm suggesting I provide a distraction so you can escape,” Scarlet whispered fiercely. It felt like a very important distinction.

“No!”

“I promised I wouldn’t let you--”

“You know perfectly well I did _not_ mean that you should _kill_ yourself to save _me_.”

“You have a better idea?”

“The others are  _that way_ ,” Cyv hissed, stabbing a finger in the direction of the other entrance. “If you would just let go of your death wish for a  _second_  we could figure out a way--”

“There's only four of them!”

“And my dog!”

“Fine, there's five! Do you have _any idea_ what's behind the Veil here? It's thin as fucking paper, the things these assholes could summon would make Tevinter look like a petting zoo! I can _do_ this, Cyv!”

Cyv muttered a handful of choice elvish curses, and couple of tears slid through the grime on her face. She raked her hands through her hair in exasperation. “Whatever you're wanting to do, could you do it while I'm standing next to you?” Scarlet didn't answer that. There was no answer for that, you couldn't control--her silence was answer enough. Cyv grabbed her good hand, wrapped hers around it. Then she punched her in the arm so hard she had to suppress a yelp. “Then think of something else,” she ordered.

Scarlet pulled her into a hug and they clutched each other so tightly she couldn't breathe. When they released each other, Cyv kept hold of her hand, and Scarlet pushed past the very tempting, very bad advice being shoved at her through the Veil, looked around the room, thought over her repertoire. The mages had a handful of candles on their table, adding to the dim glow from the magma, and there were several torches mounted on the walls around the room, so that it was pretty well-lit. That strange not-breeze she'd noticed was here as well, and stronger. As she watched, one of the candles rocked and a mage barely caught it in time. She reached out to the breeze near her and was able to manipulate it to move the ends of her ragged hair. Not easily. Not without an alarming pressure in her left hand. But still.

She sawed at the inside of her cheek with her teeth until she got the comforting taste of copper and the expected tingle of power. She only had one working hand and an increasing sense of desperation at her disposal against a small army of rogue Tevinter mages and their devoted helpers and darkspawn thralls. If Andraste had a problem with her methods, she could convince Her Divine Husband to intercede in this particular case, or do it herself; otherwise she was welcome to keep Her Holy Mouth shut, and that went for everyone else too.

(“It always comes down to blood magic, don’t it?” Samson had spat at Marion back on the Wounded Coast, a small eternity ago. “They claim innocence, demand equality, but back them into a corner and they got options we don’t. Haven’t found a mage yet that won’t take it.”)

“I think I can knock over their candles and take out the torches.”

“Without them realizing?”

“You feel that breeze?”

“I think it's heat waves.”

“Whatever it is, I can kind of manipulate it.”

“When you do, follow me. Try to stay quiet.”

Scarlet nodded, and Cyv released her hand. They took off their hard-won shoes--“Easier to move quiet that way”--and slung them around their necks, and Scarlet took several long, deep breaths, closed her eyes, tried to focus on the breeze. It wasn't really a breeze, not exactly, but it behaved enough like a breeze that she could grab it, and encourage it, and even though the power cascading over her hands hurt like hell she could make it go where she wanted. She bit her cheek harder, until her mouth was full of blood, and she nudged and pushed and strained, and her left hand throbbed like it was going to explode, but then she heard a startled yelp from the desk, and she smiled.

The heat had kicked up harder than she'd anticipated, and it was blazing hot, but it  _worked_. The sudden gust knocked over all the candles, scattered several stacks of paper, and blew out most of the torches. One candle actually caught the sleeve of one of the mages. She couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. In the dark and the chaos, Cyv took off, and Scarlet followed.

\---

Mabarki was the one who found them. Even Cyv didn't see him before he knocked her over, whining quietly, licking her bloody ears, and fairly vibrating with the tension of not howling his feelings to the world. Scarlet had been about to incinerate the massive thing flying at them out of the shadows, and she sat down and had to stick her good hand in her mouth to keep from laughing with relief. Once Cyv had got to her feet, and Mabarki was convinced that his mistress had returned to him alive and in one piece, he turned to Scarlet and nudged her face. “Hi,” she whispered, and he made the expression that Cyv had told her meant “I am glad to see you.” Scarlet privately decided in this case it also meant “Thank you for escorting my mistress back to me, squishy human friend.” Then he slunk around behind Cyv and pushed at her back until she started moving in the direction he wanted them to go. Scarlet followed a step behind.

“Shame about my stuff,” Cyv muttered as they crept along the dank hallway, her hand on Mabarki’s head.

“Yeah,” Scarlet said, and spat blood into a corner. She was already feeling nauseous, her head swimming and her stomach churning; if she swallowed any more she was going to be sick.

Mabarki tilted his head and whined softly. “I know, ‘Barki,” Cyv said soothingly. Mabarki whined again, stopped walking and seized her hand gently in his teeth to pull her to a stop. “What is it?” she asked, crouching next to him. “Can you smell my gear?” That seemed like a tall order, but Mabarki nuzzled his face against hers with an excited whine. “Go find it,” she whispered, and he took off silently.

He led them down several short, twisting passages that anyone taller would have had a real trial getting through, and then paused at the back entrance to what looked like it might have once been a small dwarven building of some type. There was light and movement in a room on the second floor, and a largeish pile of rubble next to the wall, leading almost exactly to the window as if it had been put there for just that purpose. Scarlet took one look and shook her head. Cyv nodded, signalled “ _Wait here,_ ” and as Scarlet hunkered as far into the shadows as she could go, Cyv scrambled up the pile of rubble. She didn’t make a damn sound. Her feet barely touched the earth. Mabarki came after her, equally silent.

Scarlet didn’t hear a thing except a couple of dull thuds before they emerged a few minutes later, bloody and silent. Cyv had their packs over her shoulders and Scarlet’s staff in one hand, her lucky dagger between her teeth, and several pairs of human ears clenched in her fist. Mabarki’s muzzle was covered in blood, and he was chewing on something flesh-colored. Scarlet took her stuff, shoved her Ring of Study in her pocket, and didn’t ask any questions.

“You know Merrill? The pretty elf we met in Kirkwall?” Cyv said a little further along their creeping trek. “We get out of here I’m gonna move in with her. Fuck this Warden bullshit.”

“You love this Warden bullshit.”

Cyv heaved a sigh. “Creators save me, I really do. Still gonna go see Merrill, though. That woman kisses like a damn champion.”

Scarlet started to make a quip, but she was so dizzy she was having trouble walking in a straight line even with her staff to lean on, and found she couldn’t quite spare the energy. It was heartening, though. Maybe they'd get out of this after all. She’d have a bath and someone would fix her hand, and she’d spend the rest of her days happily doing the most boring tasks imaginable. Cleaning. Laundry.  _Filing._ Filing sounded great…

“Cyv, I need to rest,” she said, hardly aware she was saying it. Cyv started to reply, then looked at her and seemed to change her mind.

“We'll find a place.”

They holed up in a little alcove—Scarlet was so exhausted she didn't notice where or what. She sat where she was told, leaned against the wall, cradled her hand to her chest, and stopped trying to keep her eyes open. She felt Cyv put two fingers under her jaw, checking her pulse. “Why’d you come after me?” she mumbled.

“Why wouldn’t I, Red?”

“‘Cause you got...did you call me Red?”

“Somebody ought to. Get some rest.” She slipped an arm around her shoulder and Scarlet dropped her head onto it. “I'll keep watch for a bit.”

Scarlet didn't dream, which was nothing short of a miracle, and when she woke up she actually felt better. Her head was clearer now, like she'd left a smoky room in favor of a chilly winter night. The whispering was less pronounced. She could think. Even her hand didn't hurt as much. She considered whether that was a good or a bad thing in the long run—the more it healed without being properly set the less chance she would ever be able to use it again—but it was alright for now. She'd worry about everything else later.

Cyv was asleep, Mabarki splayed over most of her legs. She didn't sense any darkspawn near enough to be an immediate concern, so she edged away slowly, trying not to disturb them—Cyv never fell asleep on watch, she must have been exhausted—and hauled herself to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff.

There were two little paths leading away from them. She had not suddenly developed dwarven stone sense, and nor had she been paying much attention when they arrived, but she was pretty sure they'd come from the right. And the one to the left seemed, well, fresher. There was a whisper of breeze that felt like it was a real breeze. She glanced around, but didn't notice anything alarming (she hadn't realized how  _weird_  this area was, but when had the Deep Roads ever seemed normal?) so she crept down the path a bit, just to see, and that's when she heard someone crying. She almost went back to wake Cyv, but curiosity pulled her forward—they'd be fine, they were well hidden and Mabarki at least would wake up before anything got close. The path opened into a small room, not unlike the one she and Cyv had been held in. It was darker, so she couldn't quite see the other side, but she could clearly hear soft weeping. Human weeping. She glanced around, looking for anyone else, but she didn't see anything, so she crept closer as quietly as she could.

Not quietly enough—the crying stopped, suddenly, and she heard a voice. “Who's there?”

Scarlet stopped in her tracks. Her staff clattered out of suddenly nerveless fingers. “Rose?” she said, and Rose said “Oh Maker,  _Scarlet,_ ” and Scarlet  _ran._

Rose was kneeling at the bars of a cage, so much smaller than the one Cyv and Scarlet had been in. Her hair was matted and filthy, she was so thin as to be skeletal, her skin was creased with dirt and blood, and she reached both her arms through the bars to embrace Scarlet, who burst into tears and gathered her up as best she could. For a long moment they just clutched each other through the bars, incoherent with hysterics, and then she remembered where they were and pulled back, though she didn't let go of Rose's hand. She would sooner have flayed all the skin from her face than let go of Rose's hand. There was a hint of some threat in the back of her mind that made her nervous; she glanced around and didn't see anyone or anything, but lowered her voice to a whisper anyway. “Oh Maker, Rose, Rose,  _Rose._ How did--I thought--can you walk?”

Rose nodded frantically. “How did you find me?”

“It's a long story.” She half-turned and gestured at the manky dagger she was wearing at her hip, looted off a darkspawn. “Can you grab this?”

“Oh no, what happened to your hand?”

Something was definitely coming. She could feel it. “Later, we have to go.” Rose looked lost and bewildered, and that's when Scarlet noticed half her hair was gone, and a huge black bruise showed on the right side of her head. Blood trickled from the edge of it. Scarlet bit back a curse. No wonder her eyes were so glassy. “If I find you some pins can you pick the lock?”

“I don't...” Rose blinked in confusion, rubbed her free hand against the bridge of her nose. “I don't know. I don't think so, I can't...you'll have to do it.”

“Alright, I have an idea,” Scarlet said. She squeezed Rose's hand as tight as she could, then started to extract her fingers. Rose cried out wordlessly—Scarlet hissed at her in warning, and immediately regretted it. “I know, I know,"she whispered, “I  _know,_ I'm  _sorry,_ but there's darkspawn coming, you have to be quiet or they'll hear us.”

“Don't leave me here.”

“I'm just going to get my staff so I can get you out of here, alright? I'm coming back, I promise. Rose," she repeatedly fiercely, "I'm coming back."

Rose's eyes were frantic and full of tears. She nodded, reluctantly let Scarlet go, and Scarlet turned and ran for her staff. She picked it up, ran back, and aimed the coldest freezing charm she knew at the lock, then stopped to listen. She didn't hear anything, yet, but the creeping awareness of darkspawn was getting closer. They'd be on them any minute. She kicked the lock, banged it with her fist, but nothing happened, so she leaned her staff against the cage and stabbed the dagger into the frozen keyhole, trying to get it to shatter--the sword-swingers always made it look so easy, why was it not working? She summoned up a handful of fire and stared at the bars, wondering if she could melt them, but the cage was so small _,_ and she had never been much good at controlling fire. She snuffed it out, turned to look at the some big rocks nearby, she could try throwing those—she heard a noise behind her and spun around, and electrocuted a pair of genlocks before they were through the doorway. “Scarlet!” Rose shrieked, and Scarlet didn't suppress her curse this time, a small, frustrated, horrible part of her wondering what they had done to her to make Rose so bloody  _helpless_.

“Take this,” she said, turning and shoving the dagger at Rose, who nearly dropped it in terror. Whatever was coming down the hallway towards them was big—its footsteps shook the ground. She thought desperately of Cyv and Mabarki. She shouldn't have left them, she hoped they were awake--

“Get me out of here,” Rose begged.

“I can't,” Scarlet said. “I can't, I'm not--just,  _please,_ Rose, I know you're frightened, I know it hurts, but please just try the lock, alright? It just needs to break is all, you can do it, it's just like that time in the wine cellar, remember?”

Rose was weeping. Scarlet was weeping. Rose leaned her forehead against Scarlet's and gave a great shudder that broke Scarlet's heart into a thousand pieces. “I don't...” Rose gasped through her tears, “you have to do it.  _Please.”_

“I  _can't,_ Rose. My hand.”

 _“Something's_ _coming_.”

“I  _know._  I don't...I don't know if I can stop it.” The footsteps paused. She could feel its terrible presence in her consciousnesses like a weight, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I can't get this lock open. I won't leave you again, but...I can't do this, Rosie, I'm sorry.”

Rose didn't say anything for a long enough time that Scarlet opened her eyes and looked at her sister. She was suddenly calm, no longer hysterical, no longer even crying. Her eyes were clear, wide; she regarded Scarlet with cool detachment, her eyes glowing softly with a purple light as her hands grew larger and the cage vanished.

“Well that _is_ disappointing,” it said, and its voice was so familiar that Scarlet threw herself backwards and woke up back in the alcove with Cyv leaning over her, shaking her shoulders, Mabarki worrying at her arm with his teeth hard enough to hurt. When she opened her eyes he let go, trotted off a little ways, and whined.

“What the hell happened to you just now?” Cyv demanded. “You reek of—I don't even know what, I've never smelled magic like that--”

“How long was I out?”

“A couple of minutes.”

Something was humming nearby. Scarlet hauled herself to her feet, leaning on the staff, looked around wildly; Mabarki was scrabbling at the rock not to far away. She took a step towards it, then jerked back in terror. “We can't stay here.”

Before they left, she edged over to the side of the path, reached into her pocket, pulled her Ring of Study out, and dropped it into the river of magma flowing miles beneath them.

Cyv watched her with narrowed eyes, but didn't say anything.

Scarlet thought about promising she would explain later, but didn't know if she would. She thought fixedly of a peaceful future in filing, and stumbled away from the violet-tinged laughter chasing her. It was very hot, and her face was wet with sweat and her eyes were very dry.


	18. Chapter 18

“Holy shitting Creators,” Cyv whispered, "that’s the biggest broodmother I’ve ever seen.”

Mabarki had led them to the others. After the initial greetings and some much-needed rations, they were perched on a ledge some twenty feet above the ground, overlooking a large chamber at the edge of a chasm, similar to the one they’d found in Tevinter. Cyv, Meren, and Sant Biçente were stretched out at the edge, quietly discussing their plan, Howe keeping watch behind them with his bow ready. Scarlet had looked over the edge once, nearly thrown up (her jaunt through the Fade had not been refreshing, and she was ready to vomit at the next stiff breeze), and retreated back several feet, where Carver kept trying to shove a healing potion into her good hand.

“My fingers have to be set first or they’ll never work right,” she said, again, through gritted teeth, and when he did not seem convinced, when he in fact said “Then we'll bloody well  _set_ them, don't be an _idiot,”_ and uncorked the bottle as if ready to pour it down her throat, she meant to say "Well you're welcome to _try,_ Ser When-Did-You-Become-An-Expert-In-Human-Anatomy," but instead she lowered her voice and said “I need to talk to you” and then hauled him back even further, until they were well enveloped in shadows and safely away from everybody else.

“You know the warning signs of possession,” she whispered, as if that was a normal thing to bring up in conversation. It was in the Circle. And maybe it was when your whole family were apostates and your Circle-trained father had named you after a Templar. Carver narrowed his eyes. 

“Yes,” he said shortly.

“Could you keep an eye out?”

It wasn't really quiet--the others were still discussing their plan in low voices, and the broodmother was making wretched noises below--but in this dark little corner the silence was almost as thick as the shadows. “Yes.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Marak!” Meren hissed, and they turned around and rejoined the others. "Need some serious and sudden force applied right there,” Meren continued, pointing at a crack in the opposite ledge, some 40 yards away. Carver took one last opportunity to shove the healing potion at her, this time just tucking it into her pouch before she could stop him (later, when they left, he hoisted most of her gear without asking, while she was still trying to figure out how to balance everything with one hand, and she fell into step next to him and didn’t argue).

It went off beautifully. Howe and Cyv had rigged up some sort of projectile--it was hard to call it an arrow, really, it was the size of a small pony--that exploded on impacting the ceiling, and when the rocks that fell from there combined with the falling ledge and the boulders that Carver and Sant Biçente shoved over their ledge the old-fashioned way, the resulting avalanche was enough to bury the broodmother, her little baby darkspawn, and block all the entrances.

“That must be two tons of rock,” Meren said gleefully as they carved through the remaining mages who had come to investigate the noise, and as she sat up the next time they camped because she was too afraid to close her eyes, helping Meren sort the papers they'd taken from the various offices down here, Scarlet thought about suffocating. She thought about being crushed. And she thought a lot about how much easier it was to bring down rock than it was to hold it up.

\--- 

They were back on the surface in a few days. Best guess, they'd been down there two weeks all together. It was getting colder. Winter soon.

\--- 

It was barely afternoon when they hit the surface, but Kirkwall was still a day and a half away, so they made camp as soon as they got to the river, just before sunset. There was fish, and Sant Biçente was cooking, so it would probably be good, but Scarlet had not slept more than a few minutes at a time in days, and so as soon as the tent was up she crawled into bed without bothering to wash or eat or change or even take off her boots.

She dreamed of Rose again, in the Harrowing Chamber, wearing the uniform of the Denerim City Guard. Rose didn’t say anything, and neither did Scarlet. She held the lyrium vessel in her hands. There was a desire demon there too, hanging around the fringes of her consciousness, perhaps wanting to try again where both it and pride had failed before. “Am I ever going to be free of you lot?” she asked, not sure which of them she was talking to.

“Probably not,” Rose said, and then she tilted her head and smiled. When she held out the lyrium vessel it was actually a Joining chalice, and Scarlet took it, and looked down at the unholy concoction inside it, and shrugged, and drank it, and woke up back in an empty tent in the middle of nowhere, just before dawn, with the sudden realization that the terrible smell in the tent was  _her_.

They were right by the river, and life was better when you were clean, so she grabbed some fresh clothes and soap and shuffled down to the river. Cyv was already there, washing herself again even though she'd had a bath the night before. Mabarki was sitting on the bank; he barked, and Cyv noticed her, gave a triumphant smile. “Thought you might have slept yourself to death. I actually slept outside, you know, you smelled like you were already rotting.”

“Gross."

"Tell me about it."

"How cold is it?”

“We are in a witch’s tit situation, my friend.”

“I don't know why I asked, I'd wash myself in actual dog piss if it was the only thing I had right now,” Scarlet said. Mabarki tilted his head at her, as if considering. "That's not a suggestion," she said, as she started wrestling with her filthy clothes one-handed.

“You need help?”

“I've got it.”

“You sure about that?” Cyv asked as Scarlet tried not to be too obvious about how hard she was struggling. Her shirt came off with a disgusting squelching sound, and she dropped it on the ground next to her, figuring it couldn't hurt to give it a scrub after she was done with herself. If that didn't work, she'd just burn it.

“It's getting dressed again that I worry about.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“Thanks.”

"I am a paragon of charity." Soon enough Scarlet managed to strip off, and braced herself before she dunked into the water a little bit away. It was cold. It was  _freezing._  But the cold helped the pain in her hand die down to an ache, and she was neither dead nor captured nor possessed, and eventually her teeth stopped chattering, so all in all she thought it could be worse. They cleaned themselves in silence for a while. Scarlet was attacking the grime behind her ears when Cyv suddenly spoke. “So I've been thinking. In a year or two, once we get things cleaned up a bit more and everything settles down, I’m gonna ask for an extended leave.”

“Merrill that good a kisser?” Scarlet asked. Cyv grinned.

“Yes. But also…” she was sitting on a rock now, and she scrubbed at the bottom of her foot with great interest, “I want to find my parents. Or at least see if I can figure out where I’m from."

"What's your plan?"

"Don't have one yet. But I’ll go through every alienage in Southern Thedas if I have to.” She looked up, her sharp face warm in the light of dawn. “Want to come with?”

“Yes,” Scarlet said.  

“Good.” Cyv grinned. “Now to more immediate problems: your hair is a wreck.”

Scarlet rolled her eyes. “You are so mean to me,” she said, and Cyv came over and bullied her into sitting lower down so she could wash it for her. Afterwards she helped with buttons and laces and the sling, and combed and braided her hair, and then they both sat down on the grass with Mabarki between them and cried on him and each other as he went frantic trying to figure out whose face to lick when, until the sun was fully up and Howe stumbled on them and seemed genuinely alarmed they might all be going insane.

 

Report from Warden-Lieutenant Meren  
RE: Operation Contraception  
Commander,  
Mission accomplished. Heading to [redacted] for treatment of injuries (related: located Warden Anders), then plan to return for full debrief.

 

That night, not being quite so brutally exhausted anymore, Scarlet didn't feel like sleeping. Anyway, she wasn't sure she could. Aside from the nightmares, which were just as irritating if less frightening aboveground, her hand felt like it was on fire, despite the liberal application of ice packs (externally) and booze (internally). They'd tried to set a couple of fingers, Carver cracking terrible jokes to try and distract her despite all her threats, but it was such a mangled mess they had given up. They'd be in Kirkwall by noon at the absolute latest. She could manage 'till then. At least the sling reminded her to keep it still. She volunteered for first watch, gave up on sleeping halfway through second and shoved her boots back on before she went to to relieve Sant Biçente.

“I only say this out of a sense of duty: are you sure?” he asked with a huge yawn as she sat down.

“I'd just be sitting awake anyway, my hand is killing me.”

“In that case, prepare for a scintillating night of boredom. I’ve seen three rabbits and that’s the extent of it.”

“Noted. Sleep well.”

He passed her the mug he’d been drinking from (it seemed to be equal parts coffee and beer as black as the night sky) and she shifted, trying to get comfortable on the cold ground. She set the mug down to slide the pouches around so she could lean more easily against the tree, then opened one, dug into it, searching for a snack that didn’t necessitate getting up. Instead she found a folded up piece of paper, and her heart skipped a beat.

She still had the last two letters Rose had ever written her. They had been in her pocket when she left the Circle. The final one had arrived at the Circle only a few weeks before Rose and the others had. Since Rose died ( _since Rose died_ , she repeated to herself, wondering if it was ever going to stop hurting like the first time), she had kept one of them with her on the road, too, folded into a small pocket inside her belt pouch. It was still there. The Tevinter mages hadn't found it. She pulled it out and unfolded it, spread it out in front of her one-handed, and stared down at it, as she had so many times in the Gallows. She sparked a little light, just enough to see by. The paper was worn, the ink fading with time and handling. Most of Rose's things she'd either incorporated into her own gear or stored away, but she only had two letters. They hadn't written to each other after their Joining. There had been no need. They'd always been together.

Rose's handwriting was sloppy and inelegant, full of curls and splotches. Scarlet's had been like that once, but her penmanship study had been exacting—writing about magic required precision and clarity in the Circle. How many nights had she sat at that damn desk in Kinloch Hold, copying and recopying her letters out after everyone else had gone to bed, an irritated tutor chugging coffee to stay awake? The process of turning her into a person capable of precision had not been pleasant for anyone, but it had worked: she could draw a perfect circle and all the alphabets and major rune families with crippling exactness, with either hand (well, before), with her eyes closed. The only thing in Rose's handwriting that spoke to their being twins was the wandering flower motif around the edges of the envelope, as if she'd grown bored on the way to the post office.

Scarlet had long since left smudges and splotches of her own on the paper. Various colors of ink and dirt, the brownish color of dried blood, the crinkly spots left by teardrops. But the writing was clear enough.

_Dear Scarlet,_

_I saw the most amazing thing today: a snowy wyvern. It was so pretty I cried a little--and then of course I made like a baker and hauled buns, because I’m not stupid, you know? It was absolutely beautiful, for a rare and poisonous killing machine (may the same be said about both of us). I feel a little better knowing it exists, and I wanted you to share that._

_I don’t have anything else to report, I just wanted you to know: I think this is a good sign. I think things are going to start going really well for us. We deserve it._

_Keep an eye on the horizon._

_Love,_

_Rose_

She was crying by the time she finished reading, and she irritably wiped her eyes. She was so very, very tired of crying. She didn’t want to stare at the city in the distance any more than she wanted to stare at the letter, so she folded it up, put it back in her pouch, looked around--and saw her boots, still untied. Untying them had worked out alright, but she hadn't bothered to even attempt tying them again. Well, no time like the present. She sat up and got to work.

“Need a hand?”

“That’s the last time you get to make that joke before I beat the crap out of you,” she said, spitting the lace out of her mouth (that wasn't working very well anyway) and dismissing the light before she wiped her eyes again. Carver sat down next to her, and she half-turned and stuck out her foot.

“You’re welcome to try,” Carver said cheerfully. He pulled both her legs into his lap, tied her boots. Afterwards he left them there. So did she.

“It wasn't even funny the first time.”

“Next time I'll explore the rest of the hand-related humor in the world. You alright?”

“Except my chances of ever playing the lute.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know.” He waited. “I think it'll be...fine,” she said. “But it doesn't hurt to have backup." She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about--I wasn't sure who else to ask."

He didn't say anything. He curled his hands around her ankles, though whether to offer comfort, or reassure himself she was still there, or to stop her getting up, or what, she couldn't have said. She was so absurdly grateful for the company that she just looked up at the stars and didn't care that her feet were falling asleep.

"You still have nightmares about Ostagar?" she asked after a long moment of what could easily have been called comfortable silence. He made a surprised noise. "I realize that was a bit sudden."

"A bit."

She cleared her throat. "We never talked about it much."

"Not much to talk about."

"Not much—you used to wake up screaming."

He shrugged, looked away. "If you had a copper piece for every Warden who does that..."

"Don't change the subject.”

"What brought this up, exactly?"

"Are they getting better at all?"

She couldn’t see his face very well, but she could tell he was rubbing the back of his neck. "Nowadays I don't so much dream I'm running blindly from the horde as I dream I'm trying to single-handedly defend someplace or—” there was a small hitch in his voice here, “somebody against the horde, but getting overrun.”

“That doesn't sound better.”

“Maybe not.”

"Do you ever realize you're dreaming?"

"Sometimes. Again, I’m forced to ask, why the sudden interest in my nightmares?”

"Just wondering about--I used to have these nightmares that I had failed my Harrowing."

"I remember."

“Right, well, they started up again, and I just…” She rubbed her forehead with her good hand, “what if this is all a dream? What if I'm bleeding out on the floor of the Harrowing Chamber and my whole life since then has just been happening in my head? I remember saying no, but what if the desire demon just wanted me to think that? How would I  _know_?”

“Are you suggesting that _this_ ," here he waved his hand, indicating their general surroundings, "is the best a desire demon could come up with for you?”

“As opposed to what, exactly?”

“Surely there's something you want. A chair, perhaps."

“All I really wanted was to get laid and get out of the Circle, so mission accomplished there. Maybe I was just easy.”

“Three weeks in the Deep Roads and serious injury is a pretty terrible fantasy, though.”

Scarlet looked up at the sky, heaved a sigh. “That had occurred to me,” she admitted. “I've had almost this exact conversation with myself.”

“But…?”

“But...it’s reassuring to hear someone else say it.” There was a short pause. “Where would you be?”

“If I was in the thrall of a desire demon? Probably the practice ring. Nice weather, lots of people watching, plenty of beer, and I'm just wrecking everyone in sight. And then Bethany comes bounding up and reports that by the way our parents are really impressed, and here's your very own dog.”

“Lord Floofington the Third?”

“Of course not. There can’t be a new Lord Floofy while the current still lives.” Scarlet laughed. “Lady Floofington, maybe. Or Ser Reginald Floof, a distant cousin. What about you?”

“My dog’s name? Princess Anora. Do you know of any decent places to get a drink in Montsimmard?"

"Not really."

"Oh." Well, nothing ventured. "I hear there's a new place near the fortress with a buy one get one drink special for Wardens in uniform. Never did get a chance to go before I left last time. Thought I'd check it out. Could use some company?"

“Um,” he said, and she flushed and cleared her throat.

“Assuming…” she hadn’t misread literally every interaction in the last weeks, “no one else gets kidnapped between then and now, I guess.”

“If that’s your stipulation for a drink, maybe Kirkwall’s better. Less time to get in trouble between then and now.”

“Oh,” she said, letting out all her breath at once. “Good idea.” Then he squeezed her ankles, brushed his thumbs over the back of her calves, and she shivered a tiny bit. 

“As it happens, I know a place in Kirkwall with decent ale and no Templars that isn't my sister's house.”

“Who's she paying off, by the way? Surely not Meredith.”

“I have no idea anymore, Varric handles all the bribery.”

“Who's Varric?”

“Tethras? You met him--well, I don't know you met him exactly, but he was on the Wounded Coast--”

Scarlet sat up so suddenly she accidentally kicked him in the knee. “Varric _Tethras_?”

“Yes...?” he said, rubbing his knee, and Scarlet clamped her hand over her mouth.

“Andraste's knickers, I met _Varric Tethras_ ,” she squeaked through her fingers, wondering how quickly she could get Cyv's copy of  _Hard in Hightown_ sent over--Cyv didn’t know her birthday, but she did know the date she'd walked across the southern border of the Tevinter empire after escaping, and the anniversary celebration was coming up--maybe she should just buy a new one? “You know him? Can you get me his autograph?”

Carver groaned. “Are you kidding me? I’d never hear the end of it.”

"You should have mentioned earlier and I would have handled it myself. Please? I only need two copies. Or one in a pinch, for Cyv. _Please_?"

He sighed. "Fine."

“Perfect,” she said, settling back against the tree and putting her feet back in his lap. “Forget drinks, I’ll buy you dinner.”

She heard him chuckle. "With what money?"

"I don't know," she said around a yawn, "I'll figure it out."

"Alright, deal." There was another pause, and she yawned again, shook her head to keep her eyes open. Somehow his hand found hers in the dark. When she didn't object, he turned it over and traced his fingertips over her palm so she shivered again. "I can take watch if you want to get some sleep."

"You sure?"

"Your concern is touching, but I think I'm a match for all these vicious trees."

She didn't mean to actually fall asleep, just to close her eyes for a minute, but it happened. As she dozed she dreamed that Mabarki turned pink and walked around on his hind legs reciting Antivan poetry and telling them all their failures. Silly, nonsensical, and comfortingly mundane, and she was just slipping into a deeper sleep when Kirkwall exploded.

Scarlet wasn't sure how or when she got to her feet, but by the time the noise and the initial explosion faded she was standing and staring at the huge cloud of smoke blotting out the stars, illuminated by the fire burning in the city below, and Carver was standing next to her muttering “Marion, what have you done?” which seemed like an overreaction—Kirkwall didn't lack for warring factions, it could have been anyone--

“That was definitely a magical explosion,” she said, voice wavering, please not the Gallows, what about the children—the others were pouring out of the tents, in various states of dress and confusion, and she had the brief, selfish thought  _oh Maker, what about my hand,_ because Anders would be so busy with the wounded, even if they could get into the city--

“I have to go.”

“You can't just stroll in there--”

“She's my  _sister--_ ”

“--by yourself, are you insane? Let me get my staff--”

It was a lot lighter now that the city was on fire, so she could see that he looked very much like he was going to kiss her, was in fact grinning broadly and perhaps even moving to do so, but the others were out now, Meren was giving orders, and she yanked her attention away from Carver in time to hear Meren say “Hawke, get in there and find out what’s going on.” Carver caught her good hand briefly and then darted off towards the tent where he’d stashed his gear. “Howe, go with. Report back after.”

“Hang on, I have friends in there too,” Scarlet protested as Howe moved to join him.

“Sorry, Righty, can't hear you,” Mern said dryly, and continued before she could tell him what she thought of that. “The rest of you, pack, we’ll move in closer.” Scarlet found herself having to bite back a scowl as she stalked over to start packing and realized that just perhaps she didn't _actually_  want to spend the rest of her life filing.

\--- 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Sant Biçente said, once, as they waited closer to the city. Scarlet was pacing, gripping her staff in her good hand, trying to remember what she knew about Kirkwall's geography to tell if the explosion was near the Gallows or not. When she didn’t answer, he offered her a bottle of something. She slung her staff over her back, and was reaching for it when Cyv hissed a warning through her teeth a few seconds before they all heard someone crashing through the forest towards them.

The woman was stocky and broad-shouldered, a little below average height but so fierce she seemed much taller. She was so covered in ash it was difficult to discern her age, or the color of her skin or the long braid of her hair. She wore no helmet and little armor, and what she had was battered and dented as if she’d recently been in a fight. There was a long, shallow cut on the side of her face, the blood mixing with ash and soot. She carried a sword in one hand. She held a tearful boy no older than six in her free arm. A second child, a girl, also crying, older, maybe twelve (her apprentice robes were too small, she must have hit a growth spurt recently, it was almost impossible to keep the little ones properly clothed in the Gallows), followed beside her, clutching the woman’s long red skirts--

Scarlet took a step towards them, swinging her staff around, and the Templar raised her sword, but then Sant Biçente shot out an arm and pushed Scarlet back.

“Ho there, ser,” Meren called, his tone cautious. “What brings a Knight-Recruit and a pair of mage children out on a night like this?”

“You...are Grey Wardens?” the Knight-Recruit said, glancing at each of them, her blade never wavering. Sant Biçente wasn’t armed, but Meren held his bow at his side and Cyv had frozen with her short sword half unsheathed.

“We are. And you’re a Kirkwall Templar,” Meren said.

“The hell I am,” the Knight-Recruit spat, then seemed to remember herself. “After what has happened I can no longer in good conscience consider myself such, and intend to--”

“What’s happened in there?” Meren interrupted. A muscle in the Knight-Recruit’s jaw twitched.

“The whole damn Templar order have lost their minds is what.”

“The chantry exploded,” the girl said softly.

Sant Biçente muttered “Andraste preserve us,” let fall his arm, and dropped the cup of coffee he had been holding so that it landed in the dirt with a dull thud.

“Lora, you and Donen are playing the quiet game right now, remember?” the woman said, and while she didn’t take her eyes off of the Wardens, her tone was so different, so gentle, as to be almost unrecognizable. The girl nodded. The little boy in the Knight-Recruit’s arms, Scarlet noticed in the part of her mind that wasn’t in total chaos, had his fingers curled around one of the straps of her breastplate. “It's true. Some thrice-damned apostate mage has blown up the Kirkwall Chantry with the Grand Cleric inside,” the Knight-Recruit continued. “I understand your order does not involve itself in politics, so I suggest you move out of my way and allow me to carry on with my duty.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Scarlet said, her voice very high. Her hair was starting to stand on end and sparks gathered at the tips of the stormheart griffin's wings. The Knight-Recruit met her stare without blinking.

“I neither know nor care who you are, Warden, so you needn’t glare at me as though I’ve done you harm. My sacred duty is to protect mages from threats. I am taking these children as far from here as I can carry them, so again I charge you: help me, or _move out of my way_.” While she had been speaking the little girl behind her had squeezed her eyes shut, and just as she said her final words, the Knight-Recruit’s blade glowed red with celestial fire (this appeared to be a small surprise to the woman, but it was nevertheless effective).

“We’re going to Ostwick,” said the girl fiercely. "Leave us alone.”

"Lora," the Knight-Recruit said softly. The little girl looked up at her, and then she nodded, and the fire went out.

Meren seemed appeased. “You'll need rations,” he said, and slung his bow over his shoulder. On cue, Cyv sheathed her sword, edged over towards Scarlet. "Our mage can have a look at that cut if you'd like." 

The Knight-Recruit glanced at him as if taking his measure. He held up his hands, and she nodded and lowered her blade. Sant Biçente took a few steps closer to her.

“What’s--Meredith--” Scarlet heard herself saying. Her first relieved thought-- _it wasn’t the Circle_ \--had given way to a single refrain, repeated with increasing horror:  _A mage blew up the Chantry._ An apostate, yes, but the odds that the Mad Bitch of Kirkwall would draw a distinction were vanishingly thin. The Knight-Recruit sheathed her sword, shifted the boy to the other arm, and wiped the sweat and ash and blood from her forehead with the back of her arm.

“The Knight-Commander has invoked the Right of Annulment," she said, her voice full of a universe of sorrow and exhaustion. “She's had authorization for months, it's being carried out as we speak. We only just--”

“Oh _shit,_ Red--” Cyv began, and Sant Biçente was turning to grab her, but Scarlet fade-stepped right through him and took off running towards Kirkwall’s high black walls.


	19. Chapter 19

“Let me see if I have this right.”

Warden-Commander Clarel leaned back in her chair. She had not offered Scarlet a seat. Scarlet put her hands behind her back, clutching her wrist above her bandages, and told herself firmly not to fidget or sulk or object, to just stand at attention and be quiet and not make things worse. 

“You disobeyed a direct order, ran into a warzone, and flung yourself into a conflict between mages and Templars begun by a Warden who is also an abomination, killed several Templars acting lawfully while in uniform, and _then_  exerted authority you do not have in order to recruit half a dozen escaped Circle mages into the Grey Wardens in the middle of a rebellion.” Clarel ticked off the offenses on her fingers. “Am I missing anything? Did you also slaughter a couple of Revered Mothers while pissing on a copy of the Chant of Light?”

Scarlet swallowed. “I think that's it, ser,” she said.

“You _think_?” She added a series of Orlesian oaths that had no real translation, mostly used by parents about idiot children. “No, Warden Marrak, I don't believe you do.”

“In my defense, ser,” Scarlet said before she could stop herself, though the look of naked fury on Clarel's face almost did it for her, "I didn't enter combat directly, I only helped evacuate the Circle's children." (She could have added "unlike the bastards waiting outside," or even "killing the Templars were just a bonus," but she didn't).

"A rather labored distinction," Clarel said, with such disdain in her voice that Scarlet found herself squaring off for an argument despite her promises to herself and the steadily rising temperature in the room.

"It was my impression that our duty was the defense of humanity."

“Against darkspawn, Marrak. I know you spent some time in Ferelden, but it might behoove you to remember that Grey Wardens as a rule do not involve ourselves in politics.”

"They were going to kill _everyone_ \--"

"Do not presume to explain the Right of Annulment to me!"

"So, what, did you expect me to just let them all be _murdered_?"

Clarel rose to her feet and Scarlet backed up several steps as the torches on the wall flared up. " _You_ could have been killed!" she bellowed, face twisted with the ferocity of her words. "You could have been made Tranquil! They'd have had every legal right to do either and I would not have been able to do a thing about it!" 

A trickle of sweat wormed its way between Scarlet's shoulder blades as she swallowed the rest of her protests and fixed her gaze on a spot on the wall near Clarel's elbow. "I'm sorry, ser."

"The hell you are. Look at me," she said, voice dangerously low, and Scarlet steeled herself and made herself meet her commander's eyes. Clarel leaned forward, hands splayed out on the desk. "Hacklebolt was lenient with you. So too was I, because--" She cut off abruptly, clenched her hands into fists, her fingernails scraping gouges into the wood of the desk. "I don't know if I can legally return you to Templar custody. I have never felt the need to find out. But if you ever do something this monumentally stupid again, I will march you through the gates of the Montsimmard Circle myself, and you will rot there until your Calling. Am I making myself clear?"

Scarlet tried to say "Yes ser," tried to hold her gaze, but couldn't accomplish either, so she dropped her head to stare at the grey stone floor and nodded.

The torches sank back to normal. The temperature did not. Clarel sat down. Scarlet surreptitiously wiped at her cheeks. There was a long moment of strained silence. “What casualties in the Circle?" Clarel finally said.

"The First Enchanter."  
  
"I heard. Who else?"  
  
"I'm not sure we'll know exactly for a while yet."

"The children?” 

“A couple of the adults who didn't want to attempt the Joining or--go on the run took them to Ostwick. We think we got most of them,” she added. 

Clarel nodded, but didn't say anything else. She picked up the report that Meren and Scarlet had put together about the new Wardens and glared down at it so hard the edges smoldered. Three of the six mages had survived the Joining. Good odds. “So. Your recruits."

"You once told me..." The look Clarel turned on her did not invite reminiscing. Scarlet trailed off, and Clarel looked back at the report.

"You were pleased with what you saw of their combat aptitude, I take it.”

“I wouldn't have recruited them otherwise.” She didn't know if that was true or not. Clarel didn't seem to believe it, given the way she scoffed.

“Fortunately Warden-Lieutenant Meren agrees with you, on that point if nowhere else.” She threw the report onto the desk. “Alright. You brought them here, you accept responsibility for them. You train them. You help them navigate this new life you've brought them into. You see to it they learn more respect for authority than you, or I swear by Andraste's sacred ashes, you will regret it. _Anything_ they do wrong is on your head. And you will be cataloging the entire library. By yourself. By hand. And cleaning my quarters for the foreseeable future. And I am docking your pay by half. And _anything_ _else_ I can think of.” She pointed at the door. “Get out of my sight.”

Scarlet saluted and turned to go as quickly as she could, but Clarel called her back just before she escaped. “Stop by the armory, Hacklebolt left you some things,” she said. “Then pick up my laundry and see that it's done before the morning.”

“I will. Um. Thank you, ser.”

“As soon as the healers clear you for active duty, you're off to the Fallow Mire for a month.”

“Yes ser.” She swallowed, turned around, and spoke mostly to the door. “The other mages are having a wake for Orsino tomorrow night. If you'd like to join us.” She didn't wait to hear a response before she slipped out.

She waited 'till the door was closed behind her to drag her sleeve across her forehead and loosen the collar of her dress uniform, which she'd dug out of storage, figuring that the occasion called for excessive formality. The others were waiting outside, Carver sitting on the bench, Howe leaning on the wall, and they both looked up when she closed the door. "How bad is it?" Carver asked.

"I'm tempted to tell you to run."

"Sure, why not add desertion to the list," Howe said dryly. Scarlet stepped aside and gestured.

"Then by all means."  
  
Howe and Carver looked at each other, each apparently waiting for the other to volunteer to go first. "Flip you for it?" Carver said after a second, but then the door burst open on its own.

_"Get in here_."  
  
Carver jumped up, Howe fairly threw himself off the wall. Scarlet decided she didn't want to risk sticking around, so she muttered "Good luck," ducked past them (she hooked the little finger of her good hand around Carver's and squeezed as they passed--she had a thousand things to say, some but not all of them related to Kirkwall, but with everything going on they'd never managed to find any time alone, so that would have to do. For now), and took off down the hallway. She ran into Cyv coming around the corner. Cyv stopped, took one look at Scarlet, who was still sweating, and whistled. "Meeting with the Commander went well." 

“I'm still breathing. Could have been worse." Scarlet wiped her forehead again, peeled off her jacket and draped it over her shoulder. 

Cyv nodded. “I'm meant to report to her, but...I think I'll give her a minute. Don't fancy getting cooked.”

"She's got Howe and Carver in there right now."

"Then I'll definitely give her a minute. Wanna walk?" Cyv jerked her thumb back the way she'd come from. Scarlet fell into step beside her.

“My career is totally fucked.”

“Probably,” Cyv said cheerfully. “But I think you did right with the recruits, for what it's worth.”

“Thanks,” Scarlet said. Cyv had voiced her opinion there loudly and often, for which Scarlet was incredibly grateful. They walked in silence for a bit, and she stole a couple of glances at Cyv. Her ears were looking better--Holzer and Valenna had spent hours and hours working on them with a couple of mages from the nearby Circle, and managed to reconstruct most of them (Scarlet's hand had not fared quite so well, but the Circle healers were optimistic about regaining most of her range of motion). “How are your ears?”

“Turns out you didn't do as terrible a job with the patchwork as you thought.”

“I'm glad to hear it, I was terrified.”

Cyv looped her arm through Scarlet's. “You did your best under bad circumstances, and I love you for it.” Scarlet was not going to cry in the hallway—not again—so she thought about making a joke, but nothing came to mind. Fortunately, Cyv changed the subject for her. “So you didn't hear it from me, because I'm not supposed to know, but I expect a promotion for pulling your dumb ass out of Kirkwall. Among other things."

Scarlet grinned. "It's about time."

"That's what I said. Look, though. You  _have_ to listen to me when you're in my patrol right?. About everything, not just darkspawn and camping. Hair. Money. Directions. What we're having for dinner. The whole of it."

“Happy to, ser.” Scarlet snapped off a salute that made Cyv look very pleased indeed. “I should warn you, though, she's threatening me with the Fallow Mire.”

“The humidity is great for my skin. You got any preferences about the rest of our motley crew?"

"What? No," Scarlet said immediately. When Cyv nudged her, she pretended to be very interested in her bandages, and Cyv chuckled.

"Right, noted. I should head back. See you for dinner?”

“I'll be doing the Laundry of the Grey this evening,” Scarlet said glumly, and Cyv tried to hide a laugh behind a cough before she let go and turned back towards the Warden-Commander's office. Scarlet kept walking.

The armory attendant handed her a scarf. Hacks had worn it for years—his niece had knitted it. It was dark blue, serviceable, worn, and warm. At one point she and Rose and the rest of their patrol had commissioned him a couple of silver buttons with griffin seals for the ends. It smelled a little like wood smoke and the air just before a snow storm. It was far too warm inside for a scarf, but she wrapped it around her neck anyway. Murray was there too, collecting more giant axes than could possibly be necessary. “Wondered what he'd do with that,” he said, nodding at the scarf. "Probably best you have it."

Coming from Murray, that was a Silverwite Wings of Valor and a hug all at once. Scarlet smiled. "Did you go with him?'

“Yeah. He was alright by the end.”

They regarded each other quietly for a minute. “Oh, I knocked somebody unconscious in Kirkwall,” she said, unable to keep from sounding pleased with herself when she added "with my fist." Murray cocked an eyebrow at her bandages.

“That explains all that mess.” She rolled her eyes, and he laughed and left her to her own devices.

Before she left, the armory attendant, at her request, handed her three small, sheathed daggers.

The Warden-Commander's quarters were near the library, and on a hunch, Scarlet stopped in on her way. The new mage recruits— _her_ recruits were gathered around a long table in the small fiction section, chatting with Steiner over several mostly empty dishes. Two elves, Nehris Alhavenlan and Tamron Surana, and one human, Hattie Delcroix.

Alhavenlan was daelish, tiny, with brown hair and lovely green eyes, and Scarlet had seen her glance at Cyv more than once as well as bring a couple of trees to life to crush a group of Templars to death. Tamron was really tall for an elf, taller than Scarlet, and older, quiet and edgy. She'd known him a bit in the Circle. He cast like he was angry at magic--and maybe he was, but his barriers were almost impenetrable and he was quick-thinking and fluent in six different languages, including Qunlat. Delcroix was young, Scarlet had almost not wanted to take her, but she had insisted. Plus Tamron had vouched for her, and she had proven herself a deft hand at combat when she cast ice from one hand and fire from the other at the same time.

Scarlet hung back a little, surveying them. She should have brought something to eat rather than a bunch of weapons, they'd be starving, it was hours until dinner, and with everything going on they probably weren't taking good care of themselves--she spent a few minutes panicking about what she had done, what she had committed to, and wondered if this is what Hacks had felt like when she had stumbled into his life, or if he'd been calmer. Probably calmer. 

Steiner noticed her and waved. She waved back, and the recruits looked over at her as well, and so she took a deep breath and walked over to go talk to them.


End file.
